Billy Bush is the Tlatquiatluk

Parking Lot Monkeys: We feel so dirty. We hate ourselves. We blame Billy Bush.

Billy Bush: What did I do now?

Parking Lot Monkeys: It’s not what you did, it’s what you DIDN’T do, Billy Bush. *SOBBB*

Billy Bush: Okay, what did I NOT do now?

Parking Lot Monkeys: *SOBBB* Billy, do something!

Zorax, Master of the Obvious: It’s another crappy Monday, and it’s Billy Bush’s fault, again. I am very bored, so someone needs to wake Henry Stack Sullivan up and have him dance for our entertainment.

Henry Stack Sullivan: Tappity tappity tappity tap. Shuffly shuffly shuffle shuff. Tappity tappity tappity tap. (Big finish) Ka-tap, ka-tap, ka-top, ka-CHA!!

Wintermute: Over the weekend, Henry Stack Sullivan drove me crazy. I had the sweats and my mother was very worried for me. She put me in an ice bath and prayed to Saint Marie, her head wrapped in a black shawl like mi abuela for hours. But it was no use, me not even shaking from the cold water in the tub, staring straight up, hungry for blood. My hallucinations kept getting more and more intense until I jumped out of the tub, knocking my mom onto the floor and blasting out of the flat with no clothes. I found O’Brien at the Hollywood and jumped on his back, biting him, like eight times! Everyone was freaked out, but I must have looked mad scary, because no one, not even the bouncers, stopped me. I woke up back home, my bed soaking wet and the fever broken, O’Brien’s blood all over my face and pillow. So I know that was real, and with all that blood missing, that guy must be in the hospital or something. And I blame Billy Bush.

O’Brien: I had a dream with Billy Bush in it. Not anything sexual, so don’t get the wrong idea, but it was pretty weird because I only have dreams I remember once every few months. I was back at University of Buffalo following Billy Bush around because I didn’t know where I was, and I was in a panic because classes ended that day and I didn’t have any of my work done. Not sure what strange psychological undertones this may imply.

Karellen: I had a similar dream, where Billy Bush was painting my face with charcoal, preparing me for war with an army of robots.

Sigmund Freud: These dreams sound homoerotic. I’d look into this if I were you.

O’Brien: I knew you’d say my dream was homoerotic. It felt more like Billy Bush was my leader, taking me out of a confused abyss of conference rooms and back to the Promised Land. Which had tacky set design and poor lighting.

Mustapha Mond: I was just talking to this hot mamasita in my building for about 15 minutes. And when I walked back to my apartment I noticed that my zipper was down the entire time. Now I feel like idiot. I blame Billy Bush.

Hot Mamasita: So, like, I was like coming up the stairwell today and this posh older guy that lives in my building came up to me and, like, he just kept totally going on and on about stuff, and I was like “uh huh, uh huh” and trying to get away, and then, like, he kept following me and talking. So then I notice that he’s like totally got his zipper down, like he’s trying to flash me or something, and I was like “Ohmygawd, how gross” and stuff. Finally I got away from him. But now my day is like totally shot by how grotty that was. And, like, I like blame Billy Bush and stuff.

Ossifa Tlinklitniktikutl In Nunavut, they have a word for people like Billy Bush: “Tlatquiatluk”. It translates as “the net that catches the shit flowing in to river, when it’s not frozen.” Each Inuit settlement has its own Tlatquiatluk, who bravely carries blame for all that goes wrong in the community, making the rest of the community members feel better about themselves. It’s good to see Billy Bush preserving such an important role in his homeland. Hopefully, he does not go Tiniktiniquit (Inuit word for “Mad like the mother seal after her cubs have been clubbed and skinned”), a common occurrence for longtime Tlatquiatluks.

Karellen: The freakin’ coffee jockey at the Dunkin’ Donuts put cream in my coffee when I ordered it black, and I didn’t realize it until I got to work. Now my whole day is shot. I’m getting too old for this crap, and I know who to blame for that, too! Where’s that damn Tlatquiatluk, Billy Bush? I’m gonna give him HELL!!

Ossifa Tlinklitniktikutl: You can blame him for everything else, but you can’t blame the Tlatquiatluk for growing old. Growing old is a natural process. Nothing to do with me or my people’s traditions. Inuit age quickly. I am only 34 years old, and already am a grandfather. My people generally die of heart attacks right around time our last teeth fall out from chewing hides, about age 50. Not Tlatquiatluk’s fault. Just the Inuit way.

Karellen: Sorry, Ossifa T, I don’t buy that. From my way of thinking, it was an Inuit serpent who gave the apple to Eve. Your people are responsible for age, death, sickness and painful childbirth. That’s why The LORD sent you to the Arctic.

O’Brien: I wish I had “a people.”

Karellen: You do have a people, O’Brien. They are called “Those Who Serve Karellen With Pleasure.” Now bring me a cup of black coffee, and tell Billy Bush that him and his type aren’t welcome here, especially on a Monday morning.

Parking Lot Monkeys: We’re sorry we brought that Tlatquiatluk up. It won’t happen again. Next time we hate ourselves, we’ll blame it on D. Boon. Maybe partying will help.

Meet Yr Overlords

MUSTAPHA MOND

Loves: Soma, Alphas, World Domination, Technology, Persian Food, B. F. Skinner, Uriah Heep (but only the Ken Hensley/David Byron Years)
Hates: Squalor, Epsilons, Hamburgers, Sand in His Shorts, O’Brien

KARELLEN (WITH MRS. KARELLEN)

Loves: The Overmind, Balrogs, Seawater Sacks, Sexy Devils, Sorority Girls, Jethro Tull (but only when Glenn Cornick or John Glascock were playing bass)
Hates: Simpletons, Empathy, Pretentious Arthaus Klowns, Inefficiency, O’Brien

WINTERMUTE

Loves: Himself, Upstate Ether, Rough Sex Role Play, Treehouses, The Earthworm, Computers, Toe Fat (the band, not the body condition)
Hates: Humanity, Sporks, Space Chubby, The Adams Party, O’Brien

O’BRIEN

Loves: Boots to the Face, Rats in Cages, “My Dinner With Andre,” Sigmund Freud, Big Brother, Karellen, Uriah Heep (but only after Ken Hensley/David Byron left)
Hates: Violent Children’s Games, Macho Bullshit, Insensitivity, Himself

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!

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

I Often Dream of Bill Walton

Guy With a Dream: I’ve a recurring dream like once every six months that I can remember. It came again last night. I remember smoking up then playing basketball at a YMCA with Bill Walton on my team. So I get the ball and throw it to my teammate who puts in an easy layup. Then Bill Walton gets all up in my face saying “No! No! No! You pass to the passers, they pass to the shooters!” Then he makes some degrading comment about the smoke inhibiting my performance and puts someone else in instead of me. So I get pissed and walk out of the YMCA. Any dream analysts out there know what this could mean?

Karl Jung: The Bill Walton archetype commonly symbolizes one’s inability to shoot hoops while stoned on marijuana. So you need to sober up and work on three-point land. Cut out the middleman. That’ll show Walton.

Sigmund Freud: The marijuana cigarette you were smoking symbolizes a penis, and Bill Walton represents your father. You imagine your father is angry with you for your homosexual desires. The fact that he puts in a substitute for you indicates you fear castration. The idea that you smoke the cigarette and still play adequately, but yet are still castigated by your father for playing incorrectly, indicates that you believe homosexuality, while a deviant methodology, is perfectly adequate for achieving sexual stimulation. You would also like to have sex with your mother, though this was not in the dream.

Guy With a Dream: I will never sleep again.

Bill Walton: Who’s yr daddy? Don’t get splinters in yr ass from riding the bench so long. Loser.

Published in: on February 2, 2010 at 8:25 pm  Leave a Comment