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  

Descent into Madness: Drunknard vs Everything (With Assists to Grand Marnier, Nicorette and Absinthe)

Drunknard: how come no one is ever online when i’m drunk and rambling here at night. i pine for the glory days, when upstate ether was a tussin-fueled 24-hour extravaganza of bile, hate and trailer park rocking trash. now this board is all bourgeois and boring… bunches of office monkeys arguing with themselves from nine to five daily. what about the night owls? what about the tussin drinkers, the lotus eaters, the winos and the wild children, the vapours, the fakers, the late night shakers and bakers, the makers of madness and mindfuck, the bad luck yuckapucks and the hucksters of sterling commentary and dromedaries heavy with crystal clear desert gold and the old tribes lies and wives who survive on highs? what about them, yo? why you office bitches control the gain now, huh? tonights meltdown brough to you by nicorette, grand marnier, and pure, real absinthe. accept no substitutes, motherfuckers. its worth the investment and the illegality and the heart palpitations and ministrations, the stations of the cross, the boss, the floss in the brain despite the pain, the limnal hymnal, the baptist bad trick, the equipoise and the altar boys, the trial balloons and cocaine spoons, the peridot and astronaut, its all there, prego, blended with a smooth italian sauce, of course, your loss if you don’t play the game at 11 P aMe, tired and sleepy like mister creepy cubicle monkey, whats a junkie to do, foo, you honkey motherfunky clerical donkeys?

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: whassup, give it up for the brother who thought about the mother of that poster girl, her world cut short for the sport of hipsters and their sisters, all them dead sluts with cuts round their necks, ‘cept their sex is all wrong, they’s boys singing songs ’bout the mouths of willing slaves who save their souls and lend their holes to violation, thats their station, see, the mystery is why the guys let other eyes capture the fantasy for free and reap the benefit of that foul shit on concert walls and downtown halls, for some sick band did some poor whore give up her life, not once, not twice, but countless times as fools with rhymes reload the screen the view the scene of cables wrapped around the necks of little girls who sold their sex for crack and lies and alibis, the girlie dies, the girlie dies, and hipster guys and their hip maids debate the posters that they made, i say, i sayed, or said, i said, that little jezebel is dead, and in her breathless death emotes, a concert she herself promotes, by dudes with issues of their own, she cant pick up the telephone while i sit here, i’m all alone, in some electric message zone, but fuck it, fuck it, thats the key, fuck her, fuck them, fuck you, fuck me, fuck all this shit, fuck italy, and africa, fuck zuider zee, fuck abraham, and sam i am, fuck truth, fuck lies, fuck candied yams, fuck all of this and all that too, i need a drink, fuck me, fuck you.

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: maybe champagne would ease the pain of a rainy day that in no way made the way that we pass the day escape in quick time like escapes, get laid, some splayed broad satisfying the faded impulses betrayed by age and rage, this stage in the night is alright, why fight the plight of the poor fools using tools of inebriation and levitation, flying high, like my own wry guy, i dont know why, while flying high i try to be an upstate ether guy, no reply from the office wise, replies and sighs, let the signal fall and rise, as pictures of thighs and brides scroll by, by and by, my and my, why try i, buy me my, my my and i, i get by in the sty that i make as i bake like a blind eye letting in the light, but the sight that i fight in the night is alright, yet the plight of the right guys and wrong eyes and lost guys and found prizes blight all i see when i pee in the sea that i sail chasing tail and i turn and i stand on my own like some bone-addled coot in a suit at a desk while my chest it is filled with despair where my hair in the air should be waving like flags like the freaks fly from peaks as the weeks scroll along and the song the impales my old scales in the vales like a spear, like a year in the valley of fear, where the lord in his ford, in accord with the tales that we tell, we’re in hell, just as well, just as well, since the smell of the land of the lord, get onboard is as bad as the lad that had had himself gored by the facts and the acts that come free, with a tax, that the state sets and rates on the plates of the poor, in the war of the rich and the sons of that bitch that we call liberty, but we pine to be free, get in line, pass the time with the liberal crew, who support and report all the things that you do, i am drunk, but no punk, got no green day on tap, as i rap and attack all the spurious crap that we eat just like meat in the most holy seat where our god says we’re odd and then give up its seat to the clown dressed in brown, that’s the devil we know, it’s his show, let it go, feast on raven and crow, since the veal makes us squeal that its suffering is real, while the foul and the owl feel like nothing we feel, since they fly, since we’re wry, like the carnival crowd that’s allowed, and is proud, to be ugly and loud, in the suits that they choose as the festival comes, and we turn and we burn and we’re nothing but dumb animals in the thralls of the festival vibe, where we try and decide that the lives that we’ve tried are remiss, if we piss out the bourbon and gin, then again, we can’t win, we’re here lonely and then, we submit and we quit like the monkeys that work, in a box, with a fax, in a cubicle world, where we hurled out the bile in a style that is grand, let it come, let it come, let it fall on the land that we make, no mistake, take the rake, how it down, to the town where we found that our kids are all fucked, theres no luck for the suckiest schools that our kids sit in all day, we pray that the anomie rids them of goals for their souls and the holes that they fill, put the pegs on your legs, stomp on circles that beg squares to come, like the sum of the total eclipse, as he slips, and he trips on the carnival ships, filled with germs and with worms that the stewards have brought, god, i’m hot, quote a lot, that’s the answer to what’s on your mind as you find that your energy fails and you stare at the sun and you (blind) trim the sails.

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: upstate ethernards? you fucking bastard desk jockeys, you piss poor excuses for free thinkers, locked in your jobs, using this site for daytime amusing, rather than nigh-time abusement? wake up! cast off your yokes! talk to me, wasted wonders of yore! take me from lonely shore! fight the good fight in the war! that’s what this board, yo, is fucking here for! and now, i’m going to bed. i hope i dont throw up and drown in my own puke. that just old, yo. although it would still make headlines, i know.

James Joyce: Oh, come on now, you blithering idiot. That doesn’t make any sense at all. Stop that, right now! Bad, bad Drunknard! Bad!