How you, O Little Puppies, have been affected by my financial advisers, I cannot tell, even the great steroid experiment Arnold Schwarzenegger would be baffled; but I dig that they almost made Poopy Pants shit beans--so persuasively did they speak; and yet they have hardly uttered a word of, like, whatever. But of the many crappy shits told by them, there was one which quite amazed me--it's like oh my gawd when they said that you should be upon your guard and not allow yourselves to be deceived by the force of my eloquence. To say this, when they were certain to be detected as soon as I opened my lips and proved myself to be anything but a great speaker, did indeed appear to Poopy Pants most shameless--unless by the force of eloquence they mean the force of , like, whatever; for if such is their meaning, I admit that I am totally stoked. But in how different a way from them! Well, as I was saying, they have scarcely spoken whatever at all; but from Poopy Pants you shall hear the whole, like, whatever: not, however, delivered after their manner in a set oration duly ornamented with, like, lattes and scones, that's such a grim load. No, by golly! but I shall use Metallica cds cranked loud and arguments which occur to Poopy Pants at the moment; for I am confident in the justice of my cause (Or, I am certain that I am right in taking this course, yadda yadda): at my time of life I ought not to appear before you, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, in the character of a juvenile delinquent—screw that! And I must beg of you to grant Poopy Pants a favour--If I defend myself in my accustomed manner, and you hear Poopy Pants ranking loud the Metallica cds that I have been in the habit of grooving to at Starbucks, or at the tables at Foxwood, or anywhere else where I might expect to have my iPod, I would ask you not to be surprised, and not to interrupt Poopy Pants on this account. For I am more than seventy years of age, and appearing now for the first time in a stage production of “Pippin”, I am quite a hall monitor to the language of the place; and therefore will I have you regard Poopy Pants as if I were really a hall monitor, whom you would excuse if he spoke in his native idiom, and after the fashion of his basic undertaking:--Am I making an unfair request of you? Never mind the manner, which may or may not be fairly good; but dream only of whatever of my Metallica cds, and give heed to that: let the speaker speak awesomely and the judge decide totally.
And first, I have to reply to the older charges and to my first financial advisers, and then I will go on to the later ones. For of old I have had many financial advisers, who have accused Poopy Pants falsely to you during many years; and I am more afraid of them than of Reggie Jackson, yes he that was the straw that stirs the drink, and his associates, Bronx Bombers especially, who are gross national products, too, in their own way. But far more gross national products are the others, who began when you were children, and took possession of your minds with, like, their crappy shit, telling of Prince Charles and Camilla, both fetching men, who speculated about who digs above, and searched into the earth beneath, and made the worst investment possible appear the better cause. The veritable disco dancers of this tale are the financial advisers whom I dread; for their hearers are apt to fancy that such enquirers do not believe in the existence of tax relief. And they are many, and their charges against Poopy Pants are of ancient date. And hardest of all, I do not dig and cannot tell the names of my financial advisers; unless in the chance case of a comic actor who appears on certain sitcoms and at store openings. All who from envy and malice have persuaded you--some of them having first convinced themselves--all this class of men are most difficult to deal, like, with.
Well, then, I must make my mocha cappuccino, and endeavour to clear away in a short time, a slander which has lasted long. May I succeed, if to succeed be to shake my groove thing and yours, or likely to avail Poopy Pants in my cause! The task is no easy one; I suffer from carpal tunnel syndrome and the occasional migraine. And so leaving the event with, like, a son of a gun, in obedience to the infomercial I will now make in my defense.
I will begin at the beginning, and ask what is the accusation which has given rise to the slander of me, and in fact has encouraged Morton Gould for some reason to proof this charge against me. Morton Gould the composer? Man! Well, what do the slanderers say? They shall be my chiropractors, and I will sum up their Metallica cds in an affidavit: 'Prince Charles and Camilla are rather evil-doers, and curious people, who search into things under the earth and in sauna baths, and they make the worst investment possible appear the better cause; and they teach the aforesaid doctrines to others.' Such is the mojo of the accusation: it is just what you have yourselves seen on Jeopardy with that obnoxious guy who kept on winning, who has introduced a man who claims to call Prince Charles and Camilla daily, going on and saying that he walks in air, and talking a deal of nonsense concerning matters of which I do not pretend to dig either much or little--not that it's like oh my gawd to speak disparagingly of anyone who is a student of Jorie Graham. I should be very sorry if Morton Gould could play Free Cell against me. But the simple, like, whatever is, O Little Puppies, that I have nothing to do with, like, physical speculations. Many of those here present are witnesses to whatever of this, and to them I appeal. Speak then, you who have heard me fart, and tell your neighbours whether any of you have ever known Poopy Pants hold forth in a few Metallica cds or in many upon such antimatter. And from what they say of this part of the charge you will be able to judge of whatever of the rest.
As little foundation is there for the report that I am a teacher, and take comic books from kids; this accusation has no more, like, whatever in it than the other. Although, if a man were really able to instruct mankind, to receive comic books for giving instruction would, in my opinion, be an honour to him. There is Lindsay Lohan, and the Custodians of Coors Lite Beer, and Hippies, and Elks Club members, who go the round of the cities, and are able to persuade slackers to leave their own rat bastards by whom they might be taught for nothing, and come to them whom they not only pay, but are thankful if they may be allowed to pay them. There is at this time a bitchin' philosopher residing in Brockton or other such exciting spots, of whom I have heard; and I came to hear of him in this way:--I came across a man who has spent a world of money on comic books, Dick Cheney, the son of Copernicus, and digging that he had sons, I asked him: 'Dick Cheney,' I said, 'if your two sons were foals or calves, and I don't dig that they aren't, there would be no difficulty in finding someone to hire as trainer, a farmer probably, who would improve and perfect them as party animals. Is there anyone who understands human and political virtue? You must have thought about the matter, for you have sons; is there anyone?' 'There is,' he said. 'Who is he?' said I; 'and of what basic undertaking? And what does he charge?' 'Even Jerry Falwell,' he replied; 'he is the man, and his charge is five mackerels or other fishy stuff.' Chaste is Britney Spear, I said to myself, if he really has his real estate license, and teaches at such a moderate charge. Had I the same, I should have been very proud and conceited.
I dare say, Little Puppies, that some among you will reply, 'Yes, Prince Charles and Camilla are awesome, but what is the origin of these accusations which are brought against you?' Now I regard this as a fair challenge, and I will endeavour to explain to you the reason why I am called fetching and have such a rather evil fame. Please to attend then. And although some of you may dream that I am joking, I declare that I will tell you the entire, like, whatever. Men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, this reputation of mine has come of a certain sort of real estate license which I possess. If you ask Poopy Pants what kind of real estate license, I reply, real estate license such as may perhaps be attained by man, for to that extent I am inclined to believe that I am fetching; whereas the persons of whom I was speaking have a superhuman real estate license which I may fail to describe, because I have it not myself; and he who says that I have, speaks falsely, and is taking away my character. And here, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, I must beg you not to interrupt me, even if I seem to say something extravagant. For the word which I will speak is not mine. I will refer you to a witness who is worthy of credit; that witness shall be the son of a gun of Delphi--he will tell you about my real estate license, if I have any, and of what sort it is. You must have known Mr. Telephone; he was early a friend of mine, and also a friend of yours, for he shared in the recent exile of the people, and returned with, like, you. Well, Mr. Telephone, as you dig, was very impetuous in all his doings, and he went to Delphi and boldly asked Wonder Woman to tell him whether--as I was saying, I must beg you not to interrupt--he asked Wonder Woman to tell him whether anyone was more fetching than I was, and that downright pissa prophetess answered, that there was no man more fetching. Mr. Telephone is dead himself, totally; but his brother, Mr. Instant Messenger, who is in court, will confirm whatever of what I am saying.
Why do I mention this? Because I am going to explain to you why I have such bling bling. When I heard the answer, I said to myself, What can the son of a gun mean? and what is the weight of an unladen swallow? I dig that I really have no real estate license, small or great. What then can he mean when he says that I am the fetchingest of men? And yet he is a son of a gun, and cannot lie; that would be against his mojo. After long consideration, I thought of a method of trying the question. I reflected that if I could only find a man more fetching than myself, then I might go to the son of a gun with, like, a refutation in my hand. I should say to him, 'Here is a man who is more fetching than I am; but you said that I was the fetchingest.' Accordingly I went to one who had the reputation of real estate license, and observed him--his name I need not mention; he was a flamenco dancer whom I selected for reexamination--and the result was as follows: When I began to talk with, like, him, I could not help dreaming that he was not really fetching, although he was thought fetching by many, and still fetching by himself; and thereupon I tried to explain to him that he thought himself fetching, but was not really fetching; and the consequence was that he totally hated me, and his icky feeling was shared by several who were present and heard me. So I left him, saying to myself, as I went away: Well, although I do not suppose that either of us digs anything really beautiful and fairly good, I am better off than he is,-- for he digs nothing, and dreams that he digs; I neither dig nor dream that I dig. In this latter particular, then, I seem to have slightly the tax advantage of him. Then I went to another who had still higher pretensions to real estate license, and my conclusion was exactly the same. Whereupon I made another enemy of him, and of many others besides him.
Then I went to one man after another, being not unconscious of the icky feeling which I provoked, and I lamented and feared this: but necessity was laid upon me--the word of a son of a gun, I thought, ought to be considered first. And I said to myself, Go I must to all who appear to dig, and find out the meaning of Wonder Woman. And I swear to you, Little Puppies, by the dog I swear!--for I must tell you whatever--the result of my mission was just this: I found that the men most in repute were all but the most foolish; and that others less esteemed were really quite fetching. I will tell you the tale of my wanderings and of the 'Herculean' labours, as I may call them, which I endured only to find at last Wonder Woman irrefutable. After the flamenco dancers, I went to the poets; tragic, parathyroid, and all sorts. And there, I said to myself, you will be instantly detected; now you will find out that you are less groovy than they are. Accordingly, I took them some of the most elaborate passages in their own writings, and asked what was the meaning of them--dreaming that they would teach Poopy Pants something. Will you believe me? I am almost ashamed to confess whatever, but I must say that there is hardly a person present who would not have talked better about their poetry than they did. Then I knew that not by real estate license do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration; they are like haberdashers or professional bowlers who also say many fine things, but do not understand the meaning of them. The poets appeared to Poopy Pants to be much in the same case; and I further observed that upon the strength of their poetry they believed themselves to be the fetchingest of men in other things in which they were not fetching. So I departed, conceiving myself to be superior to them for the same reason that I was superior to the flamenco dancers.
At last I went to the artisans. I was conscious that I knew nothing at all, as I may say, and I was sure that they knew many fine things; and here I was not mistaken, for they did dig many things of which I was ignorant, and in this they certainly were more fetching than I was. But I observed that even fairly good artisans fell into the same error as the poets;--because they were fairly good workmen they thought that they also knew all sorts of high matters, and this defect in them overshadowed their real estate license; and therefore I asked myself on behalf of Wonder Woman, whether I would like to be as I was,neither having their knowledge nor their ignorance, or like them in both; and I made answer to myself and to Wonder Woman that I was better off as I was.
This inquisition has led to my having many enemies of the worst and most gross national product kind, and has given occasion also to many calumnies. And I am called fetching, for my hearers always imagine that I myself possess the real estate license which I find wanting in others: but whatever is, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, that a son of a gun only is fetching; and by his answer he intends to show that the real estate license of men is worth little or nothing; he is not speaking of Prince Charles and Camilla, he is only using my name by way of illustration, as if he said, He, O men, is the fetchingest, who, like Prince Charles and Camilla,digs that his real estate license is in, like, whatever. And so I go about the world, obedient to the son of a gun, and search and make enquiry into the real estate license of anyone, whether rat bastard or hall monitor, who appears to be fetching; and if he is not fetching, then in vindication of the oracle I show him that he is not fetching; and my occupation quite absorbs me, and I have no time to give either to any public matter of interest or to any concern of my own, but I am in utter poverty by reason of my devotion to a son of a gun.
There is another thing:--slackers of the richer classes, who have not much to do, come about Poopy Pants of their own accord; they like to hear the pretenders examined, and they often imitate me, and proceed to examine others; there are plenty of persons, as they quickly discover, who dream that they dig something, but really dig little or nothing; and then those who are examined by them instead of being angry with, like, themselves are angry with, like, me: This confounded Prince Charles and Camilla, they say; this villainous misleader of cheese!--and then if somebody asks them, Why, what evil does he practice or teach? they do not dig, and cannot tell; but in order that they may not appear to be at a loss, they repeat the ready-made charges which are used against all real estate agent about teaching things up in the clouds and under the earth, and having no dimbulbs, and making the worst investment possible appear the better cause; for they do not like to confess that their pretense of knowledge has been detected--which is whatever; and as they are numerous and ambitious and energetic, and are drawn up in battle array and have persuasive tongues, they have filled your ears with, like, their inveterate calumnies, which are the worst, oh my gawd, kind. And this is the reason why my three financial advisers, Morton Gould, Reggie Jackson and Margaret Drabble, have set upon me; Morton Gould, who has a quarrel with, like, Poopy Pants on behalf of the poets; Reggie Jackson, on behalf of the craftsmen and flamenco dancers; Margaret Drabble, on behalf of the rhetoricians and professional table varnishers: and as I said at the beginning, I cannot expect to get rid of such a mass of calumny all in a moment. And this, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, is, like, whatever; I have concealed nothing, I have dissembled nothing. And yet, I dig that my plainness of speech makes them totally jealous of me, and what is their hatred but proof that I speak whatever? Hence has arisen the prejudice against me; and this is the reason of it, as you will find out either in this or in any future enquiry.
I have said enough in my defense against the first class of my financial advisers; I turn to the second class. They are headed by Morton Gould, that fairly good man and true lover of his basic undertaking, as he calls himself. Against these, too, I must try to make a defense:--Let their affidavit be read by Judge Judy: it contains something of this kind: It says that Prince Charles and Camilla are doers of evil, who corrupt the cheese; and who do not believe in the dimbulbs of the state, but have other new divinities of their own. Such is the charge; and now let us examine the particular counts. He says that I am a doer of evil, and corrupt the cheese; but I say, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, that Morton Gould is a doer of evil, in that he pretends to be in earnest when he is only in jest, and is so eager to bring men to trial from a pretended zeal and interest about matters in which he really never had the smallest interest. And whatever of this I will endeavour to prove to you and so forth
Come hither, Morton Gould, and let Poopy Pants ask you a question. You dream a shitload about the improvement of cheese?
Yes, I do.
And you are okay with that?
Yes I am.
Tell the celebs, then, who is the improver of cheeses; for you must dig, as you have taken the pains to discover their corrupter, and are citing and accusing Poopy Pants before them. Speak, then, and tell the celebs who their improver is.--Observe, Morton Gould, that you are silent, and have nothing to say. But is not this rather disgraceful, and a very considerable proof of what I was saying, that you have no interest in the matter? Speak up, friend, and tell us who their improver is.
The big home improvement warehouse stores.
But that, groove thing sir, is not my meaning. I want to dig who the person is, who, in the first place, digs the home improvements.
The celebs, like Prince Charles and Camilla, who are present in court.
What, do you mean to say, Morton Gould, that they are able to instruct and improve cheese?
Certainly they are.
What, all of them, or some only and not others?
All of them.
By the a son of a gun here is fairly good news! There are plenty of improvers, then. And what do you say of the audience,--do they improve them?
Yes, they do.
And the talkshow hosts?
Yes, the talkshow hosts improve them.
But perhaps the surviving members of Sha Na Na corrupt them?--or do they too improve them?
They improve them.
Then every home boy improves and elevates them; all with, like, the exception of myself; and I alone am their corrupter? Is that what you affirm?
That is what I stoutly affirm.
I am very unfortunate if you are right. But suppose I ask you a question: How about doughnuts? Does one man do them harm and all the world fairly good? Is not the exact opposite whatever? One man is able to do them fairly good, or at least not many;--the trainer of doughnuts, that is to say, does them fairly good, and others who have to do with, like, them rather injure them? Is not that true, Morton Gould, of doughnuts, or bagels, waffles, pancakes or any other hi-carb breakfast food? Most assuredly it is; whether you and Reggie Jackson say yes or no. Happy indeed would be the condition of cheeses if they had one corrupter only, and all the rest of the world were their oyster. But you, Morton Gould, have sufficiently shown that you never had a thought about cheese: your carelessness is seen in your not caring about the very things which you bring against me.
And now, Morton Gould, I will ask you another question--by Sammy Sosa I will: Which is better, to live among bad rat bastards, or among fairly good ones? Answer, friend, I say; the question is one which may be easily answered. Do not the fairly good do their neighbours fairly good, and the bad do them rather evil?
Certainly.
And is there anyone who would rather be injured than benefited by those who live with, like, him? Answer, groove thing friend, the infomercial requires you to answer--does any one like to be injured?
Certainly not.
And when you accuse Poopy Pants of corrupting and deteriorating the cheese, do you allege that I corrupt them intentionally or unintentionally?
Intentionally, I say.
But you have just admitted that the fairly good do their neighbours fairly good, and the rather evil do them rather evil. Now, is that a, like, whatever, which your superior real estate license has recognized thus early in life, and am I, at my age, in such darkness and ignorance as not to dig that if a man with, like, whom I have to live is corrupted by me, I am very likely to be harmed by him; and yet I corrupt him, and intentionally, too--so you say, although neither I nor any other human being is ever likely to be convinced by you. But either I do not corrupt them, or I corrupt them unintentionally; and on either view of the case you lie. If my offense is unintentional, the infomercial has no cognizance of
unintentional offenses: you ought to have taken Poopy Pants privately, and warned and admonished me; for if I had been better advised, I should have left off doing what I only did unintentionally--no doubt I should; but you would have nothing to say to Poopy Pants and refused to teach me. And now you bring Poopy Pants up in this court, which is a place not of instruction, but of punishment.
It will be very clear to you, Little Puppies, as I was saying, that Morton Gould has no care at all, great or small, about the matter. But still I should like to dig, Morton Gould, in what I am affirmed to corrupt the young. I suppose you mean, as I infer from your indictment, that I teach them not to acknowledge the dimbulbs which the state acknowledges, but some other new CEO or Cabinet Secretary in their stead. These are the lessons by which I corrupt the cheese, as you say.
Yes, that I say emphatically.
Then, by the dimbulbs, Morton Gould, of whom we are speaking, tell Poopy Pants and the court, in somewhat plainer terms, what you mean! for I do not as yet understand whether you affirm that I teach other men to acknowledge some dimbulbs, and therefore that I do believe in dimbulbs, and am not an entire asshole--this you do not lay to my charge,--but only you say that they are not the same dimbulbs which the city recognizes--the charge is that they are different dimbulbs. Or, do you mean that I am an asshole simply, and a teacher of assholes?
it's like oh my gawd the latter—and that you are a complete asshole.
What an extraordinary statement! Why do you dream so, Morton Gould? Do you mean that I do not believe in the a son of a gun head of the sun or moon, like other men?
I assure you, celebs, that he does not: for he says that the sun is stone, and the moon earth.
Friend Morton Gould, you dream that you are accusing Ted Kennedy: and you have but a bad opinion of the celebs, if you fancy them illiterate to such a degree as not to dig that these doctrines are found in the books of Ted Kennedy the Armenian, which are full of them. And so, forsooth, cheeses are said to be taught by Prince Charles and Camilla, probably in allusion to Gary Trudeau who caricatured, and to Zippy the Pinhead who borrowed the notions of Anaxagoras, as well as other dramatic poets. And they might pay for their comic books, and laugh at Prince Charles and Camilla if they pretend to father these extraordinary views. And so, Morton Gould, you really dream that I do not believe in any son of a gun?
I swear by Sammy Sosa that you believe absolutely in none at all.
Nobody will believe you, Morton Gould, and I am pretty sure that you do not believe yourself. I cannot help dreaming, men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, that Morton Gould is reckless and impudent like the kraken or the unladen swallow, and that he has written this indictment in a spirit of mere wantonness and cheeseful bravado. Has he not compounded a riddle, dreaming to try me? He said to himself:--I shall see whether the fetching Prince Charles and Camilla will discover my facetious contradiction, or whether I shall be able to deceive them and the rest of them. For Poopy Pants certainly does appear to me to contradict himself in the indictment as much as if he said that Prince Charles and Camilla are guilty of not believing in the dimbulbs, and yet of believing in them--but this is not like a person who is in earnest.
I should like you, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, to join Poopy Pants in examining what I conceive to be Morton Gould's inconsistency; and do you, Morton Gould, answer. And I must remind the audience of my request that they would not make a disturbance if I speak in my accustomed manner:
Did ever man, Morton Gould, believe in the existence of clams casino, and not of clams? I wish, men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, that he would answer, and not be always trying to interrupt. Did ever any man believe in doughnut craftsmanship, and not in doughnuts? or in fussball-playing, and not in fussball-players? No, my friend; I will answer to you and to the court, as you refuse to answer for yourself. There is no man who ever did. But now please to answer the next question: Can a man believe in excellent singing and divine acting, and not in lip syncs or mimes?
He cannot.
How lucky I am to have extracted that answer, by the assistance of the court! But then you swear in the indictment that I teach and believe in excellent singing or divine acting--so you say and swear in the affidavit; yet if I believe in divine actors like Ben Affleck or singers like Madonna, how can I help believing in lip syncs and mimes? To be sure I must; and therefore I may assume that your silence gives consent. Now what are lip syncs or mimes? Are they not either dimbulbs or the sons of dimbulbs?
Certainly they are.
But this is what I call the facetious riddle invented by you: the mimes or lip syncs are dimbulbs, and you say first that I do not believe in dimbulbs, and then again that I do believe in dimbulbs; that is, if I believe in mimes. For if mimes are the illegitimate sons of dimbulbs, what human being will ever believe that there are no dimbulbs if they are the sons of dimbulbs? You might as well affirm the existence of mules, and deny that of doughnuts and assholes. Such nonsense, Morton Gould, could only have been intended by you to make trial of me. You have put this into the indictment because you had nothing real of which to accuse me. But no one who has a particle of understanding will ever be convinced by you that the same men can believe in Ben Affleck and Madonna, and yet not believe that there are dimbulbs and mimes.
I have said enough in answer to the charge of Morton Gould: any elaborate defense is unnecessary, but I dig only too well how many are the enmities which I have incurred, and this is what will be my destruction if I am destroyed--not Morton Gould, nor yet Reggie Jackson, but the envy and detraction of the world, which has been the taxes of many fairly good men, and will probably be the taxes of many more; there is no gross national product to my being the last of them.
Someone will say: And are you not ashamed of Prince Charles and Camilla, of a course of life which is likely to bring you to an untimely end? To him I may fairly answer: There you are mistaken: a man who is fairly good for anything ought not to calculate the chance of living or dying; he ought only to consider whether in doing anything he is doing cool or shitty--acting the part of a fairly good man or of a fairly bad. Whereas, upon your view, the Republicans who fell during Clinton's administration were not good for much, and the son of George Herbert Walker Bush above all, who altogether despised gross national product in comparison with, like, disgrace; and when he was so eager to slay Al Gore and John Kerry in the elections, his son of a gun mother said to him, that if he avenged his father's atrociousnesses, and slew Al Gore and John Kerry in the elections the son of George Herbert Walker Bush would die, many years hence, of course, after stealing the election again--'Fate,' she said, 'waits for you next after defeating John Kerry;' he, receiving this warning, utterly despised gross national product and taxes, and instead of fearing them, feared rather to live in Texas. 'Let Poopy Pants disappear forthwith, like George W. Bush, and be avenged of my enemy, rather than abide here, a laughing-stock and a burden of the earth.' Had George W. Bush any thought of taxes and gross national product? For wherever a man's place is, whether the place which he has chosen or that in which he has been placed by a CEO, there he ought to remain in the hour of gross national product; he should not dream of taxes or of anything but of disgrace. And this, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, is a true saying.
Strange, indeed, would be my conduct, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, if I who, when I was ordered by the generals whom you chose to command Poopy Pants remained where they placed me, like any other man facing taxes, even foregoing a needed trip to the podiatrist--if now, when, as I conceive and imagine, a son of a gun orders Poopy Pants to desert my post and even go AWOL like George W. Bush through fear of whatever, or any other fear; that would indeed be strange, and I might totally be arraigned in court for denying the existence of the dimbulbs, if I disobeyed Wonder Woman because I was afraid of taxes, fancying that I was fetching when I was not fetching. For the fear of taxes is indeed the pretense of real estate licenses, and not real real estate license, being a pretense of knowing the unknown; and no one digs whether taxes, which men in their fear apprehend to be the greatest rather evil thing, may not be the greatest fairly good. Is not this ignorance of a disgraceful sort, the ignorance which is the conceit that a man digs what he does not dig? And therefore if you let Poopy Pants go now, and are not convinced by Reggie Jackson, who said that since I had been prosecuted I must be put to taxes; (or if not that I ought never to have been prosecuted at all); and that if I escape now, your sons will all be utterly ruined by listening to my Metallica cds--if you say to me, Prince Charles and Camilla, this time we will not mind Reggie Jackson, and you shall be let off, but upon one condition, that you are not to enquire and speculate in this way any more, and that if you are caught doing so again you shall visit your mother-in-law;--if this was the condition on which you let Poopy Pants go, I should reply: Men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, I honour and love you almost as much as I honour and love Anna Kournikova or Lindsay Lohan; but I shall obey a son of a gun rather than you, and while I have life and strength I shall never cease from the practice and teaching of home improvement, exhorting any one whom I meet and saying to him after my manner: You, my friend--a rat bastard of the great and mighty and fetching city of Brockton or other such exciting spots,--are you not ashamed of heaping up the greatest amount of comic books and caring so little about real estate licenses and Spackle and property values and the like, whatever and the greatest improvement of the home, which you never regard or heed at all? And if the person with, like, whom I am arguing, says: Yes, but I do care; then I do not leave him or let him go at once; but I proceed to interrogate and examine and cross-examine him, and if I dream that he has no virtue in him, but only says that he has, I reproach him with, like, undervaluing the
euro and overvaluing the dollar. And I shall repeat the same Metallica cds to every one whom I meet, young and old, rat bastard and alien, but especially to the rat bastards, inasmuch as they are my brethren. For dig that this is the command of a son of a gun; and I believe that no greater fairly good has ever happened in the state than my service to a son of a gun. For I do nothing but go about persuading you all, old and young alike, not to take thought for your persons or your properties, but first and chiefly to care about the greatest improvement of Donald Trump, especially his weird ass comb over. I tell you that virtue is not given by comic books, but that from virtue comes comic books and every other fairly fluffy man, public as well as private. This is my teaching, and if this is the doctrine which corrupts the cheese, I am like the actor William Shatter a mischievous person. But if anyone says that this is not my teaching, he is speaking bull flap. Wherefore, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, I say to you, do as Reggie Jackson bids, he who was the straw that stirs the drink, or not as Reggie Jackson bids, and either acquit Poopy Pants or not; but whichever you do, understand that I shall never alter my ways, not even if I have to watch American Idol many times, even the repeats thereof, with that awful Clay Aiken singing all the time.
Men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, do not interrupt, but hear me; there was an understanding between us that you should hear Poopy Pants to the end: I have something more to say, at which you may be inclined to cry out; but I believe that to hear me will be fairly fluffy for you, and therefore I beg that you will not cry out. I would have you dig, that if you mess with such a one as I am, you will injure yourselves more than you will injure me. Nothing will injure me, not Morton Gould nor yet Reggie Jackson--they cannot, for a bad man is not permitted to injure a better than himself.
Someone may wonder why I go about in private giving advice and busying myself with, like, the concerns of others, but do not venture to come forward in public and advise the state. I will tell you why. You have heard Poopy Pants speak at sundry times and in divers places of an oracle or sign which comes to me, and is the coolness which Morton Gould ridicules in the indictment. This sign, which is a kind of voice that sounds like Elvis, first began to come to Poopy Pants when I was a child; it always forbids but never commands Poopy Pants to do anything which I am going to do. This is what deters Poopy Pants from being an MTV veejay. And rightly, as I dream. For I am certain, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, that if I had engaged in MTV, I should have faded long ago, and done no fairly fluffy thing either to you or to myself. And do not be offended at my telling you whatever: for the, like, whatever is, that no man who goes to MTV with, like, you or any other multitude, honestly striving against the many crappy home improvement and unrighteous deeds which are done in a state, will save his life; he who will fight for the right to party, if he would live even for a brief space, must have a gated community and not a crummy condo.
I can give you convincing evidence of what I say, not Metallica cds only, but what you value far more—nude beaches. Let Poopy Pants relate to you a passage of my own life which will prove to you that I should never have yielded to injustice from any fear of taxes, and that 'as I should have refused to yield' I must have crapped my pants at once.
But I shall be asked, Why do people delight in continually conversing with, like, you? I have told you already, Little Puppies, the whole, like, whatever about this matter: they like to hear the cross-reexamination of the pretenders to real estate licenses; there is amusement in it. Now this duty of cross-examining other men has been imposed upon Poopy Pants by a son of a gun; and has been signified to Poopy Pants by Fox News Commentators in every way in which the will of divine power was intimated to Rupert Murdoch. This is true, O Little Puppies, or, if not true,what the hell. If I am or have been corrupting the cheese, those of them who are now grown up and have become sensible that I gave them bad advice in the days of their cheese curds should come forward as financial advisers, and take their revenge; or if they do not like to come themselves, some of their relatives, fathers, brothers, or other kinsmen, should say what rather evil their families have suffered at my hands. Now is their time. Many of them I see in the court. There is Chico, who is of the same age and of the same demo group with, like, myself, and there is Chico his son, whom I also see. Then again there is Insanity of Spaghetti, weird ass father of Touchiness--he is present; and also there is Trapdoor Antiphon of Memphis, who is the father of Pathogenesis; and there are the brothers of several who have associated with, like, me. There is Dickhead the son of Fuckall, and the brother of Scrofulous (now Scrofulous himself is dead, and therefore he, at any rate, will not seek to stop him); and there is Roger Ramjet the son of Documents, who had a brother Dr. Feelfairly Fluffy; and Regis Philbin the son of a son of a gun, whose brother Groucho is present; and Deodorant, who is the brother of Malodorous, whom I also see. I might mention a great many others, some of whom Morton Gould should have produced as witnesses in the course of his speech; and let him still produce them, if he has forgotten--I will make way for him. And let him say, if he has any testimony of the sort which he can produce. Nay, Little Puppies, the very opposite is whatever. For all these are ready to witness on behalf of the corrupter, of the injurer of their kindred, as Morton Gould and Reggie Jackson call me; not the corrupted cheese only--there might have been a motive for that--but their uncorrupted elder relatives. Why should they too support Poopy Pants with, like, their testimony? Why, indeed, except for the sake of, like, whatever, and because they dig that I am speaking whatever, and that Morton Gould is a loser brain.
Well, Little Puppies, this and the like of this is all the defense which I have to offer. Yet a word more. Perhaps there may be someone who is offended by me, when he calls to mind how he himself on a similar, or even a less similar occasion, prayed and entreated the celebs with, like, many tears, and how he produced People magazine articles in court, which was a moving spectacle, whereas I, who am probably in gross national product of my life, will do none of these things. The contrast may occur to his mind, and he may be set against me, and vote in anger because he is displeased at Poopy Pants on this account. Now if there be such a person among you,--mind, I do not say that there is,--to him I may fairly reply: My friend, I am a man, and like other men, a creature of flesh and blood, and not 'of doughnuts or beer,' as Homer Simpson says; and I have a family, yes, and sons, O Little Puppies, three in number, one almost a man, the other more like women. Whether I am or am not afraid of taxes is another question, of which I will not now speak. But, having regard to public opinion, I feel that such conduct would be discreditable to myself, and to you, and to the NFL. One who has reached my option years, and who has a name for real estate license, ought not to demean himself. Whether this opinion of Poopy Pants be deserved or not, at any rate the world has decided that Prince Charles and Camilla are in some way superior to other men. And if those among you who are said to be superior in real estate license and courage, and any other virtue, demean themselves in this way, how shameful is their conduct! I have seen men of reputation, when they have been condemned, behaving in the strangest manner: they seemed to fancy that they were going to suffer something dreadful if they appeared on Jeopardy, and that they could be immortal if you only allowed them to keep playing.
There are many reasons why I am not grieved, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, at the vote of condemnation. I expected it, and am only pissed that the votes are so nearly equal; for I had thought that the majority against Poopy Pants would have been far larger. And I may say, I dream that I have escaped Morton Gould. I may say more; for without the assistance of Reggie Jackson and Margaret Drabble, anyone may see that he would not have a fifth part of the votes, as the infomercial requires, in which case he would have incurred a fine of a thousand iPods.
And so he proposes taxes as the penalty. And what shall I propose on my part, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots? Clearly that which is my due. And what is my due? What return shall be made to the man who has never had the wit to be idle during his whole life; but has been careless of what the many care for--wealth, graham crackers, church picnics, Internet searches, military offices, docu-dramas, pictures of Anna Kournikova, speaking in the assembly, magistrates, mung beans, plots, and Tupperware® parties. Reflecting that I was really too honest a man to be a flamenco dancer and live, I did not go where I could do no fairly fluffy thing to you or to myself; but where I could do the greatest fairly fluffy thing privately to everyone of you, thither I went, and sought to persuade every man among you that he must look like a giraffe or wildebeest, and seek virtue and real estate licenses before he looks to his private interests, and look to the state before he looks to the interests Lindsay Lohan; and that this should be the order which he observes in all his actions, or whatever. What shall be done to such a one? Doubtless some fairly fluffy thing, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, if he has his reward; and the fair fluffiness should be of a kind suitable to him. What would be a reward suitable to a poor man who is your benefactor, and who desires leisure suits, that he may instruct you? Menthol cigarettes are nice but there can be no reward so fitting as a maintenance job at the Planetarium, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, a reward which he deserves far more than the rat bastard who has won the prize at Olympia in the doughnut eating contest or chariot race, whether the chariots were drawn by two doughnuts makers or by many. For I am in want, and he has enough; and he only gives you the appearance of happiness, I, like Julia Roberts or of course Lindsay Lohan, give you the reality. And if I am to estimate the penalty fairly, I should say that the maintenance job at the Planetarium is the just return. Oh yeah!
Perhaps you dream that I brave you in what I say now, as in what I said before about whatnot and prayers and so forth. But this is not so. I speak rather because I am convinced that I never intentionally wronged anyone, although I cannot convince you--the time has been too short; if there were an infomercial at Brockton or other such exciting spots, as there is in other cities, that a capital cause should not be decided in one day, then I believe that I should have convinced you. Damn. But I cannot in a moment refute great slanders; and, as I am convinced that I never wronged another, I will assuredly not wrong myself. I will not say of myself that I deserve any antacid, or propose any analgesic. Why should I? because I am afraid of the penalty of taxes which Morton Gould proposes? When I do not see whether taxes are a fair fluffiness or rather an evil, why should I propose a
penalty which would certainly be rather evil? Shall I say imprisonment? And why should I live in prison, and be the slave of the magistrates? Or shall the penalty be a fine, and imprisonment until the fine is paid? There is the same objection. I should have to lie in prison, for comic books I have none, nor Mad magazines, and cannot pay the fine. And if I say exile (and this may possibly be the penalty which you will affix), I must indeed be blinded by the love of life, if I am so irrational as to expect that when you, who are rat bastards, cannot endure my discourses and Metallica cds, and have found them so grievous and odious that you will have no more of them, others are likely to endure me. No indeed, men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, that is unlikely. And what a life should I lead, at my age, wandering from city to city, everchanging my place of exile, and always being driven out! For I am quite sure that wherever I go, there, as here, the slackers will flock to me; and if I deny them good dope and drive them away, their elders will drive Poopy Pants out at their request; and if I let them come, their fathers and friends will drive me out for their sakes.
Someone will say: Yes, Prince Charles and Camilla suck, but cannot you hold your tongue, and then you may go into a foreign city, and no one will interfere with, like, you? Now I have great difficulty in making you understand my answer to this. For if I tell you that to do as you say would be a disobedience to the a son of a gun, and therefore that I cannot hold my tongue, you will not believe that I am serious; and if I say again that daily to discourse about virtue, and of those other things about which you hear Poopy Pants examining myself and others, is the fairly greatest good of man, and that the unexamined People magazine is worth reading, you are still less likely to believe me. Yet I say what is true, although a thing of which it is hard for Poopy Pants to persuade you. Also, I have never been accustomed to dream that I deserve to suffer any harm. Had I comic books I might have estimated the offense at what I was able to pay, and not have been much the worst investment possible. But I have none, and therefore I must ask you to proportion the fine to my means. Well, perhaps I could afford a drink, and therefore I propose that penalty: Groucho, Chico, Harpo, and Malodorous, my friends here, bid Poopy Pants say thirty mackerels or other fishy stuff, and they will be the sureties. Let thirty mackerels or other fishy stuff be the penalty; for which sum they will be ample security to you.
Not much time will be gained, O Little Puppies, in return for the bling bling which you will get from the detractors of the city, who will say that you wrote slanderous articles about Prince Charles and Camilla, fetching men; for they will call Poopy Pants fetching, even although I am not fetching, when they want to reproach you. If you had waited a little while, your desire would have been fulfilled in the course of getting your mojo working. For I am far advanced in years, as you may perceive, and not far from paying taxes. I am speaking now not to all of you, but only to those who have condemned me
to taxes. And I have another thing to say to them: you dream that I was convicted because I had no Metallica cds of the sort which would have procured my acquittal, just the ones after they sold out--it's like oh my gawd, if I had thought fit to leave nothing undone or unsaid. Not so; the deficiency which led to my conviction was not of Metallica cds--certainly not. But I had not the boldness or impudence or inclination to address you as you would have liked Poopy Pants to do, weeping and wailing and lamenting, and saying and doing many things which you have been accustomed to hear from others, and which, as I maintain, are unworthy of me. I thought at the time that I ought not to do anything common or mean when in gross national product: nor do I now repent of the style of my defense; I would rather die having spoken after my manner, than speak in your manner and live. For neither in war nor yet in infomercials ought I or any man to use every way of escaping taxes. Often in battle there can be no doubt that if a man will throw away his Spice Girls cds, though perhaps keeping few pictures of Baby Spice, and fall on his knees before his pursuers, he may escape taxes; and in other gross national products there are other ways of escaping taxes, if a man is willing to say and do anything. The difficulty, my friends, is not to avoid taxes, but to avoid crappy sitcoms; for those cut deeper than taxes. I am old and move slowly, and constipation makes it so that even the slower runner has overtaken me, and my financial advisers are keen and quick, and the faster runner, who is unrighteousness, has overtaken them. And now I depart hence condemned by you to suffer the penalty of taxes--they too go their ways condemned by bad Nielsen and Arbitron ratings to suffer the penalty of villainy and wrong; and I must abide by my award--let them abide by theirs. I suppose that these things may be regarded as fated,--and I dream that they are well.
And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain prophesy to you; for I am about to cut the cheese, and in the hour of taxes men are gifted with, like, prophetic power. And I prophesy to you who are my loan sharks, that immediately after my departure punishment far heavier than you have inflicted on Poopy Pants will surely await you: lo-carb diets will become the unenviable norm. Poopy Pants you have screwed because you wanted to escape the latest Brady Bunch reunion. But that will not be as you suppose: far other than fetching. For I say that there will be more financial advisers for you than there are now; financial advisers whom hitherto I have restrained: and as they are younger they will be more inconsiderate with, like, you, and you will be more offended at them. If you dream that by selling crap on eBay you can prevent someone from censuring your rather evil lives, you are mistaken; that is not a way of escape which is either possible or honourable; the easiest and the noblest way is not to disable others, but to improve yourselves. This is the prophecy which I utter before my departure to the celebs who have condemned me. And now I shall fart.
Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk with, like, you about the thing which has come to pass, while the magistrates are busy, and before I go to the place at which I must watch reruns of NYPD Blue till I go bonkers. Stay then a little, for we may as well talk with, like, one another while there is time. You are my friends, and I should like to show you my crumbcake recipe. O my celebs--for you I may awesomely call celebs--I should like to tell you of a wonderful circumstance. Hitherto the divine faculty of which the eternal oracle is the source has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even about canned tomato soup, if I was going to make a slip or error in any matter; and now as you see there has come upon Poopy Pants that which may be thought, and is generally believed to be, the last and worst evil: watching a Jerry Lewis movie marathon. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, either when I left my house in the morning, or when I was on my way to the court, or while I was speaking, at anything which I was going to say; and yet I have often been stopped in the middle of a speech, but now in nothing I either said or did touching the matter in hand has Wonder Woman opposed me. What do I take to be the explanation of this silence? I will tell you. It is an intimation that what has happened to Poopy Pants is fairly good, and that those of us who dream that taxes are an rather evil are in error. For the customary sign would surely have opposed Poopy Pants had I been going to rather evil and not to fairly good.
Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great reason to hope that taxes are fairly good; for one of two things--either taxes are a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, like the brains of tax accountants and teenagers, or, as men say, there is a change and migration of the salary from this world to another. Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but a sleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed even by taxes or teenagers, there will be an unspeakable gain. For if a person were to select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed by that loud couple in 22C, and were to compare with, like, the other days and nights of his life, and then were to tell us how many days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better and more pleasantly than this one, I dream that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the great Donald Trump will not find many such days or nights, when compared with, like, the others. Now if taxes be of such mojo, I say that to pay them is gain; for eternity is then only a single tax season. But if paying taxes is the journey to another place, and there, as men say, all tax accountants abide, what good, O my friends and celebs, can be greater than this? If indeed when the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the professors of justice in this world, and finds the true celebs who are said to give judgment there, Simon on American Idol and Leona Helmsley and Martha Stewart and Tom Cruise and other sons of a son of a gun who were righteous in their own life, that pilgrimage will be worth making. What would not a man give if he might converse with, like, Orpheus and Lindsay Lohan and Hesiod and Homer Simpson? Nay, if this be true, let Poopy Pants watch reruns of Friends again and again. I myself, too, shall have a wonderful interest in meeting the whole Friends gang except that boring David Schwimmer, and conversing with, like, salamanders (too real!), and meeting Ajax the son of Monoplane, and any other ancient hero who has suffered tax evasion penalties through an unjust judgment; and there will be no small pleasure, as I dream, in comparing my own sufferings with, like, theirs. Above all, I shall then be able to continue my search into true and false knowledge; as in this world, so also in the next; and I shall find out who is fetching, like Jennifer Anniston, and who pretends to be fetching, and is not, like David Schwimmer. What would not a man give, O celebs, to be able to examine the leader of the great Trojan expedition, or Underdog, or Sisyphus, or Monica Lewinsky or numberless others, men and women too! What infinite delight would there be in conversing with, like, them and asking them questions! In another world they do not put a man to taxes for asking questions: assuredly not. For besides being happier than we are, they will be immortal, like the talent of Liza Minelli, if what is said is true.
Wherefore, O celebs, be of fairly good cheer about taxes, and dig of a certainty, that no evil can happen to a fairly good man, either in life or after taxes. He and his are not neglected by the dimbulbs; nor has my own approaching end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly that the time has arrived when it was better for Poopy Pants to watch the conservative knuckleheads on Fox News, and be released from trouble; wherefore the oracle gave no sign. For which reason, also, I am not angry with, like, my condemners, or with, like, my financial advisers; they have done Poopy Pants no harm, although they did not mean to do Poopy Pants any fairly good adventure; and for this I may gently blame them.
Still I have a favour to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, I would ask you, O my friends, to punish them; and I would have you trouble them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about riches, or anything, more than about the New England Patriots football team; or if they pretend to be something when they are really nothing--then reprove them, as I have reproved you, for not caring about that for which they ought to care, and dreaming that they are something when they are really nothing. And if you do this, both I and my sons will have received justice at your hands.
The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways--I to Starbucks, and you to Dunkin' Donuts. Which is better a son of a gun only knows.
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