Dr. Faustroll Writes the Wrongs

As many of my readers know, I am on a mission of Allah to make my insignificant penis the premier InterWeb destination for anyone interested in understanding how important our second amendment rights are to the preservation of a Christian oligarchy dedicated to the superhuman pursuit of truth, justice, and the American Way.

I recently read that one of the strategies for increasing traffic to your blog — even if it is only about an insignificant penis — is to engage your readers by asking them to respond to questions you pose that are relevant to life on the planet on which you are currently living.

I admit I am unclear on the concept of spatial reality, relevance, and the limitations of space in the William Randolph Hearstian universe of freedom of speechification, but I do know how to draw blog addicts to drink at the trough of my insignificant penis, and this post is an exercise intended to bring me even more readers who desire my insignificant penis to rock their worlds.

Granted, many of my readers do not have insignificant penises. In fact, some have no penises at all, which ruled out posing questions that would not necessarily drive more traffic to what is currently an oddly tumescent URL, so I decided to explore the other focus of my pataphysical effort to celebrate the consequences of having second amendment rights to solve disagreements with a burst of automatic weapons fire.

I avoided the potatophysical approach to keep certain insufferable brits from thinking they could simply waltz in and sit on the faces of my readers without paying royalities. The truth is that most if not all potatophysicians were killed in duels during the premiere of King Ubu in 1896. We are still sweeping up after that unfortunate incident.

I will reserve comment on recent attempts by the unicorn defibrillation army to disrupt communications here at the Portland Pataphysical Outpatient Clinic, Lounge, and Laundromat until the zombie spine flu dodadecademic has been brought under control. Continue Reading »

We arrived in Oregon in 1981 during the last time the trickle down economy circled the toilet, and the first job I managed to get here was working for both The Oregonian and its hind-tit litter runt The Oregon Journal. I was still writing poetry then, and Mrs. Faustroll was attending the College of Specific Northwest Art.

Continue Reading »

Leave it to those amazing Limeys to spend thirty thousand bucks for a school of five phony fish that will apparently expand the war against morning toast on the Thames to the oceans and beyond!

These are robot fish, people, designed to detect pollution. I suspect this is because the water they are being put into is too polluted to support real carp. I wonder if I’ll be able to book a trip to the Bay of Biscayne in a couple of years to angle for these things with artificial bait. Will they produce artificial offspring in the wild? Is this the advent of SeaNet? Where is Sarah Connor when you need her? Tonight we’ll dine in Hell on metal!

To be fair, it has been nearly three hundred years since Dryden and Pope waxed poetic about those beautiful fecal floaters in downtown London, but robot fish a six grand a pop? Have these funny sounding people lost their damn minds? Will these things at least smell like fish if you left them out of water for a few days?

Here’s my favorite quote from the story:

“Our hope is that this will prevent potentially hazardous discharges at sea as the leak would undoubtedly get worse over time if not located,” said Professor Huosheng Hu of Essex University, whose team is building the fish.

If successful, they hope the fish could be used around the world to prevent the spread of pollution.

And they would do this how?

And Huosheng Hu? What is he really looking for? Godzirrah?

I often receive questions from first time patients who are unfamiliar with the role of pataphysicians in the 21st century. This is understandable because so many people in the NOMPH™ have either been born without imaginations or trained to suppress their imaginations for the sake of finding jobs or mates or waiting in line to obtain a cavity search before boarding an over-crowded plane whose air circulation system is contaminated with hundreds of potentially lethal hemorrhagic viruses.

Many of these patients suffer from debilitating diseases of the imagination that make them believe the most outrageous horse exhaust and use it as the basis for irrational decision-making that often results in a syllogistic reality wherein someone who attempts suicide is revived at great public expense to stand trial, be convicted, and terminated under a three-strikes statute that only benefits the advertisers of the broadcast execution.

Others succumb to profit-taking imaginary diseases contracted by exposure to television advertising, conservative talk radio bloviators, and sanctimonious liberals who are so lame that even their embryos often spontaneously abort in protest. I have heard from victims of restless leg syndrome who don’t realize that shaking your penis at a men’s room urinal is not a disorder, unless, of course, you happen to be a woman, in which case your penis is not there, but even that isn’t anything to get worried about. There are two other legs to the black pataphysical stool of life.

What all these people have in common, of course, is their having achieved a level of ineptitude and self-doubt that places them beyond salvation, which is what makes my job so satisfying. Any minor success I have in treating a continent of mundane binary boobs provides a rush not unlike irrigating my sinuses with a 40 ounce bottle of Ballantine’s followed with a pint of Everclear.

Today I received this e-mail from a first-time patient in Culpepper, Virginia.

Dear Dr. Faustroll,

I was referred to you by Timmy McVeigh, one of my co-workers in Saudi Arabia. He said you would recognize his name in a minute, something to do with a Flag Day celebration you wrote about.

I work for a humongous multinational corporation whose name I can’t remember. I think I’ve been with them for several years, but I can’t be sure because I telecommute, and I’ve never seen any of the people I work with because my Internet connection is so slow that I can’t video conference. Even worse, the PRAM battery in my computer went dead a couple of years ago, and the internal clock resets to January 1, 1960, every time I have to reboot, which is several years before I was born.

Many of the people I work with are in Asia and the Middle East, and I have no problem using e-mail and teleconferencing over SharePoint to meet with them at odd hours, but I am having a difficult time figuring out when to contact my coworkers in Antarica, Australia, and Tiera del Fuego, where they are either half a year ahead or behind of local time, because it is summer there, although it is still winter here.

I have not received a cost of living increase for quite some time, and I suspect I have missed several deadlines because of my confusion over mileposts in the project plan. I can never be sure which spring I should be aiming for or which fall to expect feedback from my reviewers. Can you help?

Sincerely,
Sir William Pilgrim, esq.

I told Billy I would ask my helpful readers for advice on how they coordinate with coworkers who live elsewhere in the space time continuum. Please join in the discussion so that Billy will finally get a focal increase for all his hard work.

I’m having a hard time letting go of my Christmas spirit, particularly when poopadoodlists and pundits and phlaky phuckwads continue to clutter Ted Stevens’ InterTube with sober inanities, threatening to shut down traffic through the tunnel of nonsense that leads to the information interstate which ends at the bridge to nowhere.

This morning I awoke from a dream in which one of my old bosses barged into my office and demanded to know why my biorhythm profile was not clearly displayed on my desk, my door, or on the wall behind me, as had been detailed in an HR bulletin earlier in the week.

She went on to explain how much it cost to develop the biorhythm readings for all of her thousands of direct reports and their strategic subordinates, not to mention the money that went to produce the poster-sized results of the readings and then to frame them with custom mat board in chrome and glass.

She was absolutely livid that I had so little regard for the expense and effort that went into the Governmental Sensitivity Task Force for Uniform Extrapolation that I had chosen to hang my highly suspect results on the inside of my office door, beneath the coat hook, on which was hanging my foul weather gear.

“You may think this is silly, Mr. Faustroll,” she hissed at me, “but I am a very busy woman, and I don’t have time to waste figuring out what kind day you are having when I’ve already paid for this chart! I want it displayed where I don’t have to waste any more of my time coming in here to check on you unless your biorhythms indicate it is time for disciplinary action!”

That’s when I awoke and realized how far I had come since the days when I inhabited the One Minute Workplace and finally learned to manage my stress by relaxing and letting go, as I explained yesterday in the post on effevescent Nietzscheanism.

So Daschle is just another politician, as is former governor Rod Arrrrr! Blagojevich, and Rush Edsel Limbaugh is a liberal media welfare cheat (not to mention a big, fat lying doodyhead), but I don’t quite understand what people are surprised about. When you state the obvious, isn’t it really just self-explanatory redundancy that normal people no longer even notice ? Poopadoodle is as poopadoodle does, as Forrest Gump would have said if he had paid any attention to Odd Bodkins and Dan O’Neill during his misinformative years.

I wonder who among Biraq’s appointees is going to have withdraw from consideration after admitting to paying for Tarot-readings, or astrological and biorhythm charts designed to help drive-by management drill-down to solve those sticky personnel issues beyond the big picture that they have never really seen themselves.

It always makes me think of Chubby Checker and Bobby Rydell and Brenda Lee and Red Foley and most of all, Frank Sinatra, whose rendition of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas in The Victors seared itself into my DNA to point where I could not even consider siring a precious little phuck for the NOMPH™.

If you are ever suitably delusional and thinking that freedomocracy is the way to go, seek out the film and have yourself a really appropriate emotional experience during the holiday shopping season. There have been other films about that uplifiting and inspiring execution, but The Victors is the best, and the last scene is one of the greatest visual moments in anti-propagandist cinema ever, if you leave out the horror and sci-fi genres.

I went back looking for literary people who have commented ironically on the holiday shopping season, and I was surprised that over and over again I ended up back at Hardy and Stephen Crane. Nemerov and Bukowski had a couple of works about crass inhuman commercialism, and Vonnegut’s work is, of course, a testament to what idiots agree to do when asked to submit to the rule of law by idiots further up the food chain, but few contemporary writers appear willing to risk their schwantzes by mocking the holy gift-giving season, even if gift is a German word that means poison. All you skinheads, take a bow. You win again!

And I can remember happy times as an idiot American youth who used his Christmas Club savings to buy volatiles and gags to please his family members and insignificant others, but generally, the holiday season alternately angers and bores me.

Yesterday, for instance, I returned from a meeting and found directions to a holiday celebration on my keyboard. I work in a place where co-employment issues are so micromanaged that I don’t even respond to invites where I suspect that temps may be apprehended and exposed to extreme interrogation methods. What do you do when somebody leaves a map to the Holiday Celebration that tells you exactly where it’s going to occur without telling you when, or why?

I rarely attend such sorry gatherings as matter of course. I can remember the day I determined never again to celebrate the horrordays with my family. I didn’t know them very well. I don’t really miss the survivors of that mongolian cluster fuck. Why should I care about some imaginary relationship based entirely on the concept that I am anything more than a wage slave?

Dyslexic niggers of the world, untie!

Life doesn’t suck any more than gravity does. And gravity is simply an expression of frustration by a physicist who was unable to find any meaning in life.

I know there is no meaning in life. I encourage everyone to look for meaning that does not involve life as we know it.

As it turns out, this focus does not give me residuals. But I don’t care. Do you?

What?

Really?

Have your agent contact me immediately. I have a plan to prevent the end of the world as you know it that will continue to make me feel fine. Phuck Mikey Stipe. And phuck George Harrison, despite his obvious infirmity, for caving on My Sweet Lord. Do lang, do lang, do lang. Is that what any marginally sentient human might call intellectual property?

Just typing. Because I can and I still have fingers. How about you pussies?

Apparently, yesterday’s post struck a nerve. I spent 30 minutes this morning approving comments from my readers, many of them negative, because I haven’t yet figured out how to shut off the moderation feature and let the buffalo chips fall as they may. Fortunately it looks like the my favorite censors over at Google have turned off the spigot to my observations on this site, so I can spend a day or two figuring out how to let all of you pseudosentient lifeforms post your priceless comments here without interference to keep you sorry ass white people protected from ofay criticism inspired by imaginary people like me.

I do have my moments, like a few other citizens of the NOMPH™ where I incite even the moderately rational into citing The New York Daily News as a source of irrefutable evidence that what they most fear is actually correct. Many people don’t like the stupid traditions of white Americans, and that includes many white Americans or those who sort of consider themselves white Americans for lack of a better turd to associate with. Their religious traditions are even more pathetic. I’m sure you’ll agree with me on that, considering the singlemindedness of your misunderestimating of the original post.

Some critics tried to educate me that the use of Black Friday was a good use of the word black because it showed that the NOMPH was capable of using black in a positive way. Some gave me the kind of economic lessons I wish I had had back in the 50s so I would have grown up to be more like them, so I could infiltrate their parties and kill them softly with my song. Or at least have had the choice to add them to the targets that are still on the table, as the current First Idiot might put it when whipping us up to the fervor required to accomplish something I still haven’t fully understood.

Other posters apparently were sharper than most citizens of the NOMPH, understanding that pataphysics is the science of imaginary solutions and that pataphysicians cure imaginary diseases, so they played along with the obvious by praising me for the phool or suggesting I was a little moron than most.

And most were quick to point out that I was wrong about suggesting that white people were involved in the death of Nassau Walmart employee, Jdimytai Damour, because all the cell phone camera photos showed mostly niggers and spics stampeding through the store, although their posts didn’t use that kind of inflammatory language. It wouldn’t be polite during this most wonderful shopping time of the year.

Some took me task for being unable to provide guidance on how to pronounce the name of the 34-year-old Tralfamadorian who died trying to make the world safe for Montana Wildhack. Next, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of you accuse me of insensitivity toward imaginary porn stars and Kurt Vonnegut’s estate.

No one smacked me for the underlying premise of the post, which was that lining up to buy crap or listen to bad music or be the first in your stupid little part of the NOMPH to get the autograph of this or that commercial slave is not a particularly awe-inspiring activity. Some people were just pissed that I expressed my opinion that white people are idiots in a flippant and satirical manner in a case where niggers and spics were mostly involved in white typical white behavior.

Of course, I didn’t read most of the comments. This is a holiday weekend, for Christ’s sake, when I always watch The Outlaw Josie Wales, where Lone Watie (played by another of a long line of great Canadians — Chief Dan George) notes that negroes are simply black white men. I wouldn’t want my opinions jaundiced by an anomaly of a few hundred colored shoppers doing the kinds stupid things white people are famous for. It could make one question the records in the Guinness Book thereof.

I’m surprised and thankful to have stirred up so much defensive Joe the Plumber/Sarah Impalin regular folk outrage and educational evidence that No Child Left Behind is really working to make this country a better place to live and learn.

On a more sober note, this morning I drove to the closest Freddy Kroger to buy cheap gas, and the parking lot was empty. From there, I traveled to a BiMart to purchase some more survivalist gear and ammunition, and they, too, were nearly without shoppers. I’d hate to think that my unresearched, assumptive, foolish, idiotic, and ill-informed pataphysical post from yesterday has turned America’s most important contribution to civilization into another discarded fad that will one day result in the terrorists storming our malls and killing our women and children and other people of indeterminate sex or familial relations.

Thanks to all who were outraged by yesterday. I hope you’ll keep coming back to be outraged in the future. I know I will.

As we used to say during the napalm liberation of Southeast Asia: Merry Crispness to All and To All a Good Fry.