Super-Ego vs Super Ego, With Freud and Skinner

Magnum Anvil: Boy, I got a great package in the mail today from Gassy Veal Kitten Randy. His band, Space Chubby, has just put out a new album, and he did the art work on it, and sent the whole thing to me, with a big band poster folded up in the envelope as well. It’s just excellent work, all around. And he just sent it to me because he knew he liked his band, not expecting anything in return. That Randy’s a designer and a rocker with a brain and a heart. And a super-ego.

Sigmund Freud: The super-ego is the section of the mind that regulates the psyche in a constrictive, moralistic manner. And everyone has a super-ego, else they’d be lacking in self restraint entirely. So we must assume that you meant that Mister Gassy Veal has a very strong super-ego, since you found it worth mentioning. A person with such a very strong super-ego would be particularly adept at obeying the moral imperatives instilled by socializing authorities and expressing him or herself only in socially appropriate, flawless etiquette exhibiting behaviors. But I know this is not so in Mister Veal Kitten’s case, having seen him vomiting onstage, and forcibly fondling the band’s roadies after shows, and defecating on my porch after I shooed him and his Real Gorilla off my lawn one morning. Since Mister Kitten Randy does not possess a very strong super-ego, one (and by “one,” I mean “I”) can only assume what you meant to say is that Mr. Gassy Veal is an egomaniac. Alternatively, if you meant to say that Mr. Gassy Randy has a “super,” that is, incredibly powerful ego, you must be the dumbest motherfucker on this board and possibly in the world. Essentially, the ego itself cannot be powerful or powerless, it is merely the balance between the idealistically equilibriated two other facets of the psyche, the super-ego and the id. Now go away, please, so I can snort my coke and smoke my pipe because it reminds me of my father’s penis.

B.F. Skinner: Aw, shut your pie-hole, Freud! Most of your theories have proven unusable, a few therapists clinging to them like their mothers’ teets. You were a product of your time whose tantalizing writings appealed to the prurient interests of a literate, but stupid 19th century middle (and to a certain extent upper) class. The super-ego, according to your worthless ramblings, rules our social selves. Mister Anvil was simply commending Mister Randy for the quality of his work and his seemingly selfless desire to share it. Randy’s work is good for the scene. Case closed. Now . . . break me off a couple of fingers of that coke, me boy!

Magnum Anvil: Wait, then what is an egomaniac, if not someone with a “super” ego?

Sigmund Freud: An egomaniac is essentially a person who has become obsessed with their own self at the expense of their perception of the world around them, i.e. their sympathy and empathy. The balance of their own desires versus their own personal constraints, what might have heretofore been termed a conscience (sic), has become the sole focus of their daily interactions with others. “What can young Gertrude give me?” the egomaniac asks. “Hans must give me his sandwich for I want it,” the egomaniac exclaims. He cannot understand that Gertrude and Hans are outside entities that are not a part of his psyche and therefore must be treated separately and differently. An undifferentiated ego mass, usually fixated in the oral stage of development.

Magnum Anvil: Golly, that sounds sort of familiar. Am I one of those, do you think?

Sigmund Freud: In order to properly assess whether you, Mr. Anvil, are an egomaniac, I would require at least five sessions a week for the next five years. I will smoke my pipe and snort my cocaine with the money you are wasting on me in order that you might project the image of one of you socializing agents onto me. This we will call “projection,” and Skinner can be damned with his scientific methods that produce actual results. I’m only interested in the money, the coke, and the sex with parents. Here . . . have a line. On me.

B.F. Skinner: Not yet, Freud! You’re supposed to make him wait, and then perform, and then ring a bell, before you give him the coke! Haven’t you learned anything after all these years?

Sigmund Freud (Five Minutes Later): Roll over! Ding!

Magnum Anvil: Drool! Drool! Snort! Drool!

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Published in: on March 18, 2010 at 7:57 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Gospel of Rock

Magnum Anvil: Little known fact, but Jesus Christ was documented as being a truly ace guitarist. Seriously! I looked it up! In the lost scripture known as the Extended-Adolescence Codex, Jesus chucks his day gig as a bazaar magician (“Hey, Paul, wanna watch me pull some loaves and fishes outta my hat?”) to hit the road with his band. They were called Nazareth, until they found out there was another band of that name, so they changed it to Nazareth UK. They were only so-so. Typical oasis band of the time. Decent shofar player, though, and Jesus really threw himself into it. Got a reputation as the hardest-working man in the biz. He’d play till his palms bled (his feet and side, too, which was weird). Graffiti started cropping out in the Roman outposts: “Jesus is God,” and the like. Chicks would swoon, and even the guys would brawl to touch the hem of his garment. There was a thriving trade in fake souvenirs–the platform sandals, the Shroud of Touring, etc–before he pulled a G.G. Allin and croaked it during a piece of performance art with a bunch of people looking on incredulously, wondering why he wouldn’t just shred and sing that “Do Unto Others” song that everybody liked so much. What a waste of talent, verily, verily. Yeah, Jesus really was the (Son of) Man, man.

Published in: on March 13, 2010 at 1:46 am  Leave a Comment  

Albany Jones Can’t Relax

Albany Jones: God, I hate the weekends, when I can’t go to work, and I’m stuck here at home. I wake up Monday mornings and as I’m getting ready to head in to the office, I am already looking ahead to the following Friday with dread, knowing that as soon as 5:00 rolls round, I’m back into limbo for two days. Saturdays are the worst. Here I am, it’s Saturday night and there’s nothing to do until midnight, when, maybe, I’ll be able to sleep. That’s five hours away!

V. Gina Gnome: Aw, c’mon, Jones. Weekends are great! Even by yourself! I mean, don’t you have a Play Station or a Wii? A good book? Cable TV? Netflix? A girlfriend? There’s got to be something that would fill the time in a satisfying fashion, right?

Albany Jones: Hour one is over. I found something to do: wash dishes. That killed 20 minutes. I tried to nap, unsuccessfully. Not tired. Did a couple of shots. Still not tired enough. Hour one is over. Four to go.

Magnum Anvil: Or you could go to a show! There’s some jam bands at Revolution Hall tonight. That will easily kill at least four hours. And you might even get lucky with the ladies if you go! Better odds than staying home, anyway.

Albany Jones: Hour two is over. I listened to an Olivia Newton-John album, finished up a book, and watched the rest of the only movie I have around the house, some crappy old Woody Allen film from the ‘70s. Three hours to go.

V. Gina Gnome: Maybe you need to take a week off, Jones, to get your batteries re-charged, and maybe remember how to amuse yourself when you can’t work at your teletype machine. Doesn’t that sound nice?

Albany Jones: A week off would kill me, Gina. You don’t know what it’s like. There are plenty of things I can do, but overall they just make me feel more empty and alone. And then once they are done, I have to search desperately for something else to keep my mind occupied. I have to fight the urge to sit on the bed and scream after a couple of days out of the office. Three day weekends are almost more than I can bear. If only I could get into the office on the weekend, that would be the solution. But the goddamn union makes sure I can’t do that, even if I want to go in and work for free. They’ve put a coded lock on the door to the teletype room to keep me out of there. Gee, thanks, comrades.

Magnum Anvil: Well I’ve got to be honest, here. It sounds to me like Albany Jones just needs to pick himself up by his bootstraps and look at how good he’s got it and quit being a whining pampered baby. If he can’t see that, what with his good union job with the State, then some therapy is in order. Soon.

Albany Jones: Are you paying, Magnum?

Magnum Anvil: Of course I’m not paying, you assclown. You’re a Stateworker! Call EAP!

Doktor Schulz von Thun: Zo vot zeems to be zee trooble, Oolbonee Chones?

Albany Jones: Well, Doktor Schulz von Thun, I guess I’m just bored. I don’t have a Play Station or a Wii or even a computer game. I never liked video games. I also don’t like football, dining out, stand-up comedy or music. How can I be entertained when I’m not at work, given all of that?

Doktor Schulz von Thun: Ovv kurze choor bored! Choor spendink Zatiday nacht typing on zee komputenmaschine! Mit inmaginaries herrens und fraulines!!

Albany Jones: Well, duh. I’m doing that because I’m bored.

Doktor Schulz von Thun: Vot choo need is zee kompanionzhip. Und not zee komputenmaschinen kinden. Zee aktualfleschenbonen kinden iz vot choo needz.

Albany Jones: Tell me about it, Doktor Schulz von Thun. But how do I get me some of that?

Doktor Schulz von Thun: Choo picken up zee telephonenesmaschinenen und choo dial und frienden und zay ‘Ja frienden, chall vee drinken zee beerundsteinen togetter, ja?’ Zimple!! Und nau, zottil be un tausend pfennig, bitte und danke. Tzop tzop!

Albany Jones: EAP’s footing the bill, Doktor, so talk to the State. And maybe you’re right, I do need to reach out to friends and find some other ways to fill the weekends. But tonight, I’m up to seven shots of Bacardi and I’m starting to feel sleepy. Good night everyone, you’ve all been great! Pray for me that I’ll be able to get to sleep, and stay in bed restfully until well past noon tomorrow!

The LORD: Sorry, Jones. I’m not accepting those prayers. I’m planning on waking you up at 4:00 AM so you can worry about stuff at work. Have a nice Sunday!

Published in: on February 7, 2010 at 5:49 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Whatnot Scandal

Troy, NY (AP) – A newly elected city representative in the city of Troy, New York was caught on mic talking salaciously to his aide about one of his fellow conference attendees. Councilman Magnum Anvil had just given a speech reiterating his campaign promise (“A Whatnot In Every Whatnot!”) when he leaned over to campaign aide V. Gina Gnome and remarked “You see that whatnot in the second row? I totally gave his wife the whatnot last night. And you would not believe the whatnot that she whatnotted!” When asked to comment on the matter, a spokesperson for Councilman Anvil told the press, “We will not whatnot this whatnot with any whatnot. Kill a hobo.” When asked to comment on the apparent slander on hobos everywhere, Hobos United Local 371 Foreman Ol’ Dirty Piece of Strange grumbled menacingly and asked for some spare change to buy some whatnot for which to whatnot.

Published in: on January 27, 2010 at 2:04 pm  Leave a Comment