“We call it Paisley Poop.”
It’s what he would have wanted.
And look what happened to him.
Why are you so happy in the port-a-pottie?
“We’re filth, all of us, you and me. Decaying carbon and a belly of methane, manure-in-waiting. Enjoy it.”
No! Is math a hard science?
“Many find it challenging.”
Not what I meant.
“Mathematics is for clairvoyants and the youthfully mad. If Madame Blavatsky had combed her hair less, and had a penis, she’d have revolutionized number theory. Every great mathematical discovery was made by young men, right at the age when schizophrenia comes on. Surely those facts have no relation at all.”
Perhaps there’s an equation.
“Hard science? No: a representational and once-removed descriptor of a reality containing the real, the imagined, and the irrational. Mathematics isn’t a science like chemistry. Magnesium is a thing. 22/7 is not: it’s a notation of a thing, based on scratching notches on a wall to count animals. An equation is true in the sense that a poem rhymes.”
Is that a Nazi hat?
“Would it upset you if it was?”
Depends. Are you Lemmy?
Then it would upset me. Lemmy was the only person who got the Nazi Pass.
“Ah, Lemmy. So young.”
“It’s not a Nazi hat.”
“The owl’s a Nazi, though.
“All night: JEW! JEW! He’s obsessed.”
“He’s very loud. At least, for a tattoo.”
You’re everything I want in a woman. After you’ve been thoroughly disinfected, of course. May I scrub you down?
“You weren’t listening about the filth thing. Besides–”
You’ve got a boyfriend.
“–I’ve got a boyfriend.”
It’s Saturday, man.
“CAN YOU GIMME A RIDE TO COURT?”
I formally protest this bit.