They laffed at me at Heidelberg.* They prodded me with cheesecake. They banned my unorthodox experiments on swine. Then I waited. Alone. At night. Now is the moment I have chosen to emerge into the unpitying light of righteous “day.” My weapon? This column, which at this moment I control absolutely, harshly, with squinted eyes and slightly flared nostrils. You are reading the verbal equivalent of an enormous Death-Ray howitzer perched crazily atop a Swiss alp and locked on to certain, classified brain-wave patterns. I am immortal.
They laffed at me at Heidelberg.* They prodded me with cheesecake. They banned my unorthodox experiments on swine. Then I waited. Alone. At night. Now is the moment I have chosen to emerge into the unpitying light of righteous “day.” My weapon? This column, which at this moment I control absolutely, harshly, with squinted eyes and slightly flared nostrils. You are reading the verbal equivalent of an enormous Death-Ray howitzer perched crazily atop a Swiss alp and locked on to certain, classified brain-wave patterns. I am immortal.
Do you see this scar? No, no. This one; the one that runs like a death’s-head grin from my pince-nez to my lip-ring. It is but one of the reminders that I carry of every glove that has laid me down or cut me till I cried out in my anger and my pain: “I am eating, I am eating,” but so much potted pork product still remains.
Never mind the scar. I’m over it. It means nothing to me. I now crave justification: When I gained control of this half-page I pushed the editor to name this publication “Porkchops: A Journal of Loining.” But the stubborn fool dug his heels in. So, I “relented,” thinking: “No, don’t tip your hand. Draw them in, draw them in.”
Guest-Editor’s Tirade
March 1, 1994They laffed at me at Heidelberg.* They prodded me with cheesecake. They banned my unorthodox experiments on swine. Then I waited. Alone. At night. Now is the moment I have chosen to emerge into the unpitying light of righteous “day.” My weapon? This column, which at this moment I control absolutely, harshly, with squinted eyes and slightly flared nostrils. You are reading the verbal equivalent of an enormous Death-Ray howitzer perched crazily atop a Swiss alp and locked on to certain, classified brain-wave patterns. I am immortal.
They laffed at me at Heidelberg.* They prodded me with cheesecake. They banned my unorthodox experiments on swine. Then I waited. Alone. At night. Now is the moment I have chosen to emerge into the unpitying light of righteous “day.” My weapon? This column, which at this moment I control absolutely, harshly, with squinted eyes and slightly flared nostrils. You are reading the verbal equivalent of an enormous Death-Ray howitzer perched crazily atop a Swiss alp and locked on to certain, classified brain-wave patterns. I am immortal.
Do you see this scar? No, no. This one; the one that runs like a death’s-head grin from my pince-nez to my lip-ring. It is but one of the reminders that I carry of every glove that has laid me down or cut me till I cried out in my anger and my pain: “I am eating, I am eating,” but so much potted pork product still remains.
Never mind the scar. I’m over it. It means nothing to me. I now crave justification: When I gained control of this half-page I pushed the editor to name this publication “Porkchops: A Journal of Loining.” But the stubborn fool dug his heels in. So, I “relented,” thinking: “No, don’t tip your hand. Draw them in, draw them in.”
Biedermeier X. Leeuwenhoek
Guest Editor
* Heidelberg Agricultural College, Heidelberg, Ohio.
This entry was posted on March 1, 1994 at 12:00 pm and is filed under Commentary.