All language subtitles for Watch Out (2008)

In the summer of my 18th year, my
parents assigned me to a lady friend.

They were troubled by the fact that I
showed no interest in members of the

opposite gender.

My parents resolved to initiate me in
the ways of the flesh.

Hi, I'm Teddy Burrows, and this is my
wife, Noreen.

You know us, don't you?

We live in the house next door. Ours is
the house with the swing set in the

front yard.

This is our son, Johnny. Johnny just
loves to play on the swings.

Don't you, Johnny?

Well, we were wondering if your
daughter, Bernice, could court our son.

They both go to Herbinger's together,
and we think they'd make a darling pair.

She has an ample bosom, but isn't overly
attractive.

And remember what W .B. Yeats said about
his baby girl?

Let her be good -looking, but not too
good -looking.

Has Bernice been deflowered yet?

Does she have any physical deformities?

Bernice!

Bernice.

Has any boy stuck a thing inside you?

Bernice, I'm asking you a question.

Have you let any boys put their
thingamajig inside you?

Bitch.

Take that, you fucking bitch. Take that.

Take that. Take that. Take that.

I'm the king.

I'm the master.

You will obey me.

Fucking bitch.

Fucking bitch.

Fucking bitch.

That'll show her who's in charge around
here.

What was the question again?

Is she a virgin?

Well, I never had sexual intercourse
with my own daughter, if that's what you

mean. As long as it occurs within the
confines of the family, it's perfectly

fine. Anything else on the menu? What
next?

Does she have pubic hair?

Oh, no, Mr. Barnum. We are not thick,
uncouth people.

Just a few more questions.

Is she intelligent?

Hell no.

She's as dumb as a lemming. Well, we can
see that she's semi -attractive.

Wouldn't you agree, darling?

Yes, she's pretty, but not overly
pretty. Very large memory glands.

But does she have at least one physical
deformity? She's got a drill hole

burrowed into the side of her head. I
don't know how it got there. I think she

did it.

Fucking bitch.

That is how our courtship began.

We dated.

if that's the right word, every Sunday
afternoon from June until late August.

Her lips are glistening strawberry
protuberances.

I strolled through the graveyard,
indifferent to the young woman who

beside me. I was abstracted.

Disengaged as if I were in another
place, infinitely distant from the role

was imposed upon me.

A demonic grimace widens on the elderly
man's wrinkled face.

He unsheathes a serpentine cord.

Cracks and snaps resound through the
air. The elderly man mutilates it with

remorse, but with vigor and passion.

He massacres defenseless animals in
order to strengthen his grip on the

convulsions that rattle his body.

Withdrawing behind a many -feathered
tree, Bernice cringes and stifles her

scream.

I returned to my parents' home and
fondled my penis until a thick,

substance spewed out of its mouth.

My parents despaired at finding me a
mate.

Nonetheless, they were determined to, as
they put it, To flower me.

My parents spent good money to have my
virginity removed.

So you just want me to have sex with
him, right? Not with the two of you

Because we could have taxed all three of
us if you like, but it's going to cost

you more.

$2 ,000.

Incest costs extra.

We just want you to break a mint, dear.
That's all.

Come on, Johnny.

Get ready.

Let's get ready to rumble.

Look at your mate.

Go on.

Stare at his masculinity.

Come on.

Come on.

A glimpse at her two bulging mammary
glands would make a normal man salivate,

but to me they were merely protuberances
consisting of rank adipose tissue that

belonged on a farm animal rather than a
human animal.

That's my Johnny. Stick it in there,
boy.

Don't be a coward.

Margaret slithered her hand gently down
my chest until it reached my unthrusting

thick.

Ah!

I could do nothing.

Come on, Johnny.

Fuck her, my boy.

Use the cock that God gave you. What do
you think it's there for, chicken

hunting? Do it already.

Rip those underpants off, dear. Right
this instant.

Margaret exposed her puberlent, Pucker.

Give her a kiss, Johnny.

For God's sakes, be decent.

Hey, listen, son. When I gave it to your
mother the first time, there was plenty

of foreplay.

Why don't you do the same?

Girl like this doesn't come around every
day.

Don't blow it, son.

She slid silkily over my nakedness. Her
hands skied through the luxuriating

meshes of my pubic hair.

Give it a shot, boy.

Take her for a ride.

Straddle that filly.

Make her suffer.

Show her who's boss.

Broke her, honey.

Broke her.

Here, I'll show you.

Mom, I told you that would be extra.

Don't you like girl, Johnny?

All right, son.

This is where we separate the men from
the boys.

That's it.

Did you see that?

I gotta get a shot from this angle.

Rear those hips, Johnny!

Rear those hips!

Cries of lust germinated from her mouth.
She tried to gel her body with my own,

but my penis would not stand.

Her vulva moistened. Her labia were
ready to oculate. I could feel their

-dark touch.

But my penis would not stand. It would
not insert itself into her tubuscular

cavity.

Come on!

Mr. Wissy Wassy.

Her vagina yielded, but my penis
resisted. Stick it in her, boy.

Mount that pole.

Mount that pole. Mount that pole. Mount
that pole. Mount that pole. Mount that

pole. Mount that pole. Mount that pole.
Mount that pole.

Mount that pole. I hope that this train
explodes into flames in this cold metal

chamber for six hours. No one had better
sit next to me or talk to me.

Look at those insects squirming vermin.

is worse than that. Open expressions of
desire.

Leave me be.

Traveling by train is treacherous. You
have to deal with them. Deal with the

mob. Humanity disgusts me. I should have
rented a car.

It almost seems as if everything that is
happening outside were a reflection of

the film that is endlessly spooling
inside my mind.

All these things belong to me.

Nature is my property.

When will the train arrive in Bitten
Harbor, Michigan?

I want out. Trains are like prisons.

You can't get away from them. They're
everywhere.

The mob. They speak to you. They grab
you. They look at you. All these pig

fuckers. Leave. Me.

Be. Human rot. Corpse rot. Dead matter.

They're all compost.

Slag. Dead matter.

I am the him.

The absolute being.

Understand that I'm not merely one being
among other beings.

I am the being.

The being of all being.

I am not human. I am metahuman. Indeed,
I am, without a doubt, the most

extraordinary being who has ever
existed.

All these fools.

Noisome sheep. They're nothing more than
props on my stage. Tools I can use them

how I please. I've never met a single
human being who's on my level.

The history of humanity is nothing more
than the preparation for my emergence

into the world.

All of these fools look at these
misbirths, abortions, mistakes.

Humankind is a cosmic error. My
existence is alone significant.

Why the fuck are they here?

A mucus -stained boy shifts in my line
of vision. He sits opposite me wearing

the official Fight Club t -shirt.

Look at that port wine stain on his
forehead.

How repulsive. The cassoon wants to
speak to me. Like a starving street

he yearns to pluck peaches from the
trees that grow in my grove. He hungers

my flesh.

That hunger will remain forever
unsatisfied.

I have a mind quicker than a cheetah. My
intelligence is unsurpassed. For this

reason, they hate me.

My dissertation advisor hated me as
intensely as the slave hates the

owner. Because I towered over him, he
desired to become me, like everyone

and therefore despised me.

He wrote a letter of condemnation on my
behalf in which he stated, Jonathan

borrows far too serious to teach anyone
German philosophy.

Revenge of the feeble.

I was blackballed.

I applied in vain for professional
positions at prestigious universities

throughout the country.

Benton Harbor Community College is the
only college that would grant me an

interview.

For this reason, I am on a train to
Benton Harbor, Michigan.

Benton Harbor has a well -deserved
inferiority complex.

Read the travel guide. It's known only
for the poverty of its residents and

occasional murders and outbreaks of
unrest.

There's absolutely no reason to
recommend the city to anyone.

Some of you might be wondering why I
would choose to accept an interview to

teach in such a city.

Even a star needs a dark background in
order to shine.

I'd like a room.

We only have, like, one room left. Like,
I swear to God.

Like, it's not even air -conditioned.
Why isn't the room air -conditioned?

Like, the air -conditioning is down and
shit.

Well, uh, if it's the only room
available, then I guess I will have to

myself to that fact.

So you want it? Yes, I'd like the room.

What's your name?

My name? My name's Jonathan Barrows. J
-O -N -A -T -H -A -N -B -A -R

-R -O -W -S.

That's a cool name.

Yes, I know.

So you want to pay, like, by cash or
check or credit? I have a visa.

Mm -hmm.

Credit card.

And an ID.

Mm.

Mm. So, like, I'm not gay or anything,
but...

I think you and I have a lot in common
and stuff.

Like, we're about the same age, and you
get kind of lonely in this hotel when

you're all by yourself.

So maybe, like, we could play Uno or
something.

Or maybe we could get a bite to eat down
at Lobster King. It's right down the

street. Did you see it? On Impression
Avenue.

I get a couple coupons for a free meal
at Lobster King.

Yeah, you buy one meal, and then the
next one doesn't cost anything as long

you order the shrimp basket.

Or maybe if you want, you could slip in
my room right down the hall.

I know you like air conditioning and
stuff.

I mean, it can get kind of hot.

It's like the summer, and I got air
conditioning.

And a cot.

Like, maybe, you know, you could sleep
on the cot.

Or if you want, maybe I could sleep on
the cot.

You know, you could sleep in your bed.

Are there any other hotels in the area?

No. This is, like, the only one in
Benton Harbor.

All the others are infested with big
-ass black beetles. I'm totally serious.

Like, the black beetles are huge.

I'm going to be here the whole fucking
night, dude.

So if you want to talk or watch TV, calm
down.

Let me know.

Okay.

Once when I was in graduate school, I
turned on the television set in my

and watched a few minutes of an
Argentinian film that featured a woman

completely naked.

I was of course horrified.

Despite the violent reaction that it
provoked within me, that film had a

salubrious impact upon my life.

The next day, after giving a seminar
presentation that would alter the lives

all those present, I set up a video
camera in front of my private shower,

the curtain, and filmed myself
showering.

I value that recording.

One can see spumes streaming into the
chasm of my plump buttock.

One can see beads of water glistening on
my taut stomach. One can see the

heaving of my beautiful chest.

The video, which I've entitled My
Shower, is the most striking film ever

While I shower in my hotel room, I
imagine watching myself shower on

There should be a video screen here,
also a computer with internet access. If

only I could dispatch these images of
these images throughout the globe.

Images of me showering.

There's nothing more breathtaking.

There is nothing more beautiful than
this beautiful vision.

I do not cake my body with powdery
substances.

I do not douse myself with sweet
unguents.

I do not spray my body with exotic
perfumes.

I exude a musty musk that draws both
women and men into my sphere.

My sweet -smelling reek prompts everyone
within a two -mile radius to portray

his most intimate desires.

Their desires are always the same.

They want the electricity that flows
from my body to enter their own.

They want to nuzzle their muzzles
against my warm flesh.

Damn, I am a fascinating man. A
stiffening, rigidifying, mesmerizing

Both women and men are attracted to me
in the way that flies are attracted to

filet mignon.

Too bad for them.

I do not know the dubious joys of fellow
feeling.

I have no need for companionship. I am
inclined toward no one.

It's often said that women are the
paragons of beauty.

This statement is not merely
incomprehensible.

It is self -contradictory.

A woman can no more be beautiful than
the sun can rotate around the earth.

I do not find women appealing.

In fact, they nauseate me. Women are the
paragons of the disgusting.

When I was a teaching assistant, an
allegedly attractive young female

approached me after a discussion
session.

I think that her name was Nicole or
Nancy or Natalia or something along

lines. Her name definitely started with
the letter N.

Johnny, you're so smart.

I really need to talk to you about a few
things that you said in class.

Could we meet really soon?

For a drink.

Real casual.

During our ill -starred meeting at the
local coffee shop, Anne remarked in a

hushed voice.

I'll give you everything.

I'll do anything you want.

My body is yours.

I appreciate your candor, Anne.

Certainly you have good taste.

I'm indeed the...

pinnacle of magnificence.

To presume that I would deign to touch
you, however, is the height of a

frontery. Your impertinence, indeed,
goes beyond all borders.

How could you imagine that someone of my
caliber would deign to touch you?

You're no more important to me than an
amoeba or a slimy tadpole.

Like all other women, you're an inferior
life form.

Her eyes threaten to spill out of her
skull and into her well -deep double

espresso latte.

Why don't you like girls?

There are multiple reasons why women are
inherently disgusting creatures, and

I'll enumerate.

Ovulation. First of all, you menstruate.
This is a sign that you are essentially

incomplete. Flows of blood flood your
vaginal folds.

Indeed, your valve never ceases to
bleed. Why would I want to touch

that bleeds?

I have no desire to drown in a menstrual
flood.

Menopause is good. It should be welcomed
and affirmed.

Secondly, female genitals?

The mons pupus is absurdly grotesque
with its nodes and its lobes.

What sickening excrescences.

And your labia are sloppy things. You
know, I can't think of anything more

revolting than the vaginal schism and...

The way that you creatures smell.

Vaginal mucus dentures.

I would rather have sexual intercourse
with a squid than stick my penis into

hollow of a vagina.

Women are such peculiarly formed
creatures, with your mammalated chest

bulging buttocks. Breaths are strange.

Such odd, fleshy protrusions.

Cantilevered mounds of adipose tissue,
often blue -membraned and...

And the way that they jiggle. The uneasy
way that an M .I. quiver makes me

queasy. And you're pap -lay.

Staring up like pink -purple eyes at
nothing.

And nothing is more revolting than...
nipple hair.

When women age, their breasts transform
into wizened, milkless udders.

You're gay.

Why don't you just say it?

You're gay.

I hate to disappoint you, N, but I am
not gay. I'm just simply not attracted

you.

Go ahead.

Call me a fish, you fucking faggot.

To a certain extent, your drawn features
and protruding teeth do resemble that

of a piranha, but I wouldn't go so far
as to call you a fish.

The teeth are also likened to that of
dominoes.

You're gay.

You're gay.

You're gay. You're gay. You're gay.
You're gay. You're gay.

You are gay.

Anne said this, of course, to balm the
wound of rejection.

She was incorrect.

I was not, and certainly am not, a
homosexual.

Nor am I merely a misogynist. Men repel
me as well.

My androphobia, in fact, knows no
limits.

Even though I have, from a purely
external point of view, male genitalia,

sight of a penis fills me with even more
disgust than the sight of a gaping

vaginal canal.

Men are even more nauseating than women.

When I was at Herberger, a male student,
I think that his name was Dirk Owen or

Owen Davis, swayed toward me across the
locker room and unveiled his male

genital organ.

Dirk Owen propositioned me playfully
while prodding his purple vein

protuberance.

No, Dirk, I will not touch you. Nothing
could be worse than the body of a man.

I detest the swell of the male punch,
sagging testes or repellent, and worse

still, your buttocks are often hairy.

No one appeals to me sexually. Give me a
full -body condom and I'll be happy.

I want a prophylactic shield that would
screen me from all human contact,

envelop me in a cone of vellum.

None the how -never, I do not suffer
from anesthesia sexualists.

I do know sexual desire.

I'm an auto -sexual. That is, I'm
sexually attracted to myself and to no

else. Why, you ask? Why?

Because I'm lovely.

I'm in fact an impossibly beautiful man.

Beauty is an illusion, except in my
case.

I'm not merely the standard by which all
things beautiful are measured. I am the

only instance of beauty in an otherwise
ridiculously ugly world.

In relation to me, everyone and
everything is ghastly in appearance.

Relation may not be the word.

Dear God or whomever, I am gorgeous.

My face glows. It is Olympian in its
splendor. And my body?

No one has a physique as exquisite as
mine. Indeed, my form is cosmically

perfect. Hot.

Damn, I'm hot.

I am so beautiful that I excite myself.

I caress my legs while moaning with deep
pleasure.

A human erector set, I give myself a
luscious erection. Yes, it is time to

my erotic garden.

Wherever I go, images of my penis
accompany me. One of my favorite images

displays my penis turned on its side,
its hips sleepily staring at the

viewfinder and smiling.

Its rigid shaft and glands assemble the
neck and head of a brontosaurus.

My penis is like a crossbow, waiting to
be fired into the abyss.

The aperture of my penis puckers like a
mouth of a tiny fish.

Soma is spirit.

I touch my penis with delight while
staring at the photographs of my penis.

cradle my testes in my hands, massaging
them delicately and lovingly.

The abysses of my solitude, I am my own
significant other.

The photographs, though immensely
appealing, do not succeed in bringing me

orgasm. I must find another way of
provoking my desires.

My dream lover.

Nothing outside of me has any meaning
whatsoever.

The world exists only in order to be
digested by me. I gormandize everyone

gets in my way. Your church, your
school, your society, your workplace,

cults, your humanity.

All of these things are ties that will
never bind my wrist.

I am the transcendental self.

I make love to my double. I infuse the
doll with sweet pleasure. I infuse

with sweet pleasure.

Pleasure flows through the doll's veins.

Pleasure flows through my veins.

I have sexual intercourse with myself.

Out of my penis surges a stream of warm
semen.

Like most of the community colleges that
were founded in American cities in the

middle of the 20th century, Benton
Harbor Community College prides itself

open admissions policy.

Literally anyone, including whores,
bums, illiterates, half -wits, drunks,

convicted sex offenders can gain
admittance to this palace of knowledge.

Benton Harbor Community College is a
sanctuary for future air conditioning

specialists. I'm going to school now,
Joy!

Their degrees are meaningless.

Nonetheless, I will acquire a position
here. I enjoy teaching, squatting

students, writing down what I say,
spooning down every word.

Sheila Grimlock.

I extend my hand, dreading the
inescapable moment when Miss

will touch my own.

Shaking the hand of the other person is
an act of extreme self -abandonment.

hand is a trap, a cat's cradle. It feels
like a hot water bottle or a glove

bloated with bull semen.

Hello, Ms. Grimlogger. I'm Professor
Jonathan Barrows.

We've been trading emails back and forth
for the past two weeks. I'm sure that

you remember me.

Professor Barrows.

No, I don't remember you.

I'm here for the interview. I'm a bit
early, I know.

I wasn't aware that there was any
interview today.

For what position did you apply?

Assistant Professor of Intelligent
Thinking.

My penis rigidifies. The rigidification
of my penis has nothing to do with Ms.

Grimlogger. Dr.

Mendoza conducts all interviews in the
School of Learning.

He'll be the one interviewing you, but
he won't be coming in today.

When will he be on campus?

He teaches a seminar every Monday.

Monday at what time?

Six to nine.

But sometimes class adjourns later.

And in which room will this be held?

Room 121.

What's the name of the course, if I may
ask?

Loving yourself, loving others, and
loving me.

Please have Dr. Mendoza telephone me at
the Crystalline Hotel so that we can set

up an interview.

The Crystal Lynn Hotel.

Jonathan Burroughs. I'd be sure to tell
him myself, Professor Burroughs.

Yes, please do.

I love the oysters.

You know that oysters are an
aphrodisiac.

You know what that word means,
aphrodisiac?

It means it makes people frisky.

What I want... And I'll also have an egg
cream.

You know how to make an egg cream, don't
you?

Well, no.

But I'm sure Chef Wilson does.

Here's your oysters, Mr.

Frufru. Here are your oysters.

Never mind.

I wish I was that oyster, Mr.

Poobah.

Why? So I could defecate you?

Ha.

Oysters are such sexy food.

Does this look sexy to you?

A desire surges within the sea of my
mind, a kind of bubbly irritation.

It is time to harvest the fruits that
grow in my erotic garden.

Perhaps I could have a quickie in the
lavatory.

No one looks more dashing than me.

I stroke my rapidly solidifying penis,
lubricating it gently with the

To intensify my pleasure, I lather my
anus with the frothy goo.

I girth my penis and cup its cap. I am
so beautiful that it breaks my heart.

I need my testes fondling them fondly.
My penis is deliciously irritated.

I delicately manipulate the perineum.

My penis is detumescent.

Pearls of semen drip from its aperture.

I wipe the slimy opalescence from my
stomach with a paper towel. I leave

traces of gelatin wherever I go.

When I indulge in these moments of
digestion, I am reminded that human

are also food to be digested.

They exist to be consumed, used up. I
devour human beings. Not literally, of

course. I use them, and in that sense, I
eat them.

You're nothing more to me than a meal at
the fast food restaurant of life.

I eat from the lunchbox of self
-enjoyment.

You are nothing more to me than a thing
to be devoured.

I will shovel down each one of you.

Human beings are biodegradable.

I stroll into the Decapitated Bowl, a
local drink and vomit on Impression

Avenue. Richard Gere likes gerbils, but
only when they're declawed.

She notices me, of course, like everyone
does.

Everywhere I go, men and women follow me
with lascivious eyes. My existence

prompts them to commit bold acts.

The woman with nauseatingly large
breasts approaches my table and sits

across from me, uninvited.

She's too close.

Her movements are too brisk, too sudden,
too feminine.

Hi.

My name is Gina.

My friends call me Jen.

I love drinking that gin.

Do you mind if I sit here with you?

I've come for one purpose.

I'd like a glass of Absinthe, and then
I'll be on my way.

Time presses. Are you the waitress?

No. I'm just one of the girls.

What's your name?

You're in no position to address me,
Gabriella.

There's absolutely no symmetry between
us. Your consciousness is different from

my own. If you were someone that were
worthy of addressing me, I would have

said, hello, my name is Jonathan Barrow.

I don't mean to disturb you, but you
just seem so peaceful.

See that busboy over there?

He really likes me.

Men just throw themselves at me.

And you can see why.

I can tell that you like me too.

Just like all the guys.

Like the busboy who works here.

Don't tell anyone.

But I gave him my number, and he's been
calling me every day for the past month.

I mean, I've been deleting all his
messages.

But, like, last night, I listened to one
of them just for kids, and he started

saying things like, please, Gina, call
me, Gina, just once.

So I did.

But that was just to tell him to stop
calling me.

I mean, what did he think?

Did he think I'd actually...

Go out with him or have any respect for
him after he's been calling me for one

full month straight?

I mean, come on, that's, like,
ridiculous.

Anyway, I told him on the phone that he
was a really nice guy, but he just

wasn't my type.

Also, he's a busboy.

This is like, what, his second job or
something?

I want a guy.

With a good career.

Not some busboy who has to dig in his
pocket for change every time he takes me

to the burger god.

You seem like a well -heeled guy.

You dress real nice and stuff.

And you look a lot like Jude Law and
stuff.

Anyway, the busboy, he does not know how
to dress. I'm not talking about the way

he's dressing now because he's at work
and everything.

I was at Ye Olde Diner, and he was off
to work with his brother, who's also

of dorky and Spanish like him.

And he, the busboy, I mean, he was
wearing, I'm not even kidding you, he

wearing stone -washed jeans.

You know, the speckly kind with white
dots.

And, oh, my God, I am not even kidding.

He was wearing, I am not even kidding,
he was wearing sneakers.

White sneakers.

Oh, my God, that is so nice.

Anyway, there's this guy at the
Chrysaline Hotel, and he's the day

he's kind of cute and well -built, and I
got a weakness for big arms and muscles

and stuff, and he had those all right.

Anyway, I'm the one that approached him,
and, I mean, I could tell that the

feeling was mutual because he
complimented me on my chest.

As you can see, I have very big breasts.

And men like those.

I don't even have to pay for meals
anymore.

But I am so a good girl. I'm not even
kidding you. I am so serious. I am very

religious because my parents are
religious. Are you religious?

I'm a Christian, but I don't believe
that God exists beyond this world.

What? Why is that?

Because I am God.

What?

What do you mean?

Jesus is God?

Despite popular disbelief, Jesus of
Nazareth was an imposter, a random

Jesus Christi, Jesse the Pointer,
predicted my advent.

As long as you're alive, as long as
you're breathing, I'm the only God

ever need.

You know the rock?

The wrestler, the rock?

I dated him.

I wouldn't brag about that if I were
you.

I'm so hot that you could fry eggs on my
brow.

By the way, I don't know if you know
this, but I dye my anal hair red, white,

and blue.

The color of this great country of ours
and stuff.

Sometimes, like on the 4th of July and
stuff, I bend down along the highway and

spread open my ass cheeks so that the
drivers and walkers can see my dyed anal

hair and stuff.

They usually, the drivers in the cars,
they usually like honk their horns and

cheer on me and stuff.

I'll tell you what, Mr. Lardy Dardy, I'm
looking for new candidates.

I have three boyfriends, but you smell
real nice and you dress real nice and

stuff. And I think you'd be a nice new
candidate.

I'm only in town for a few days. I'm
here for an interview at the community

college. I don't have time for a
relationship.

Well, what about a short -term
relationship?

A short -term relationship is too long
for me.

Come on, Whore.

Strip, you fucking manslut.

Take it off, you bitch.

Show me that penis. I want to see that
fucking penis.

Show me your testicles.

I want to see those bouncing testicles,
whore.

Show me that ass.

Show me that ass. Show me that ass. Show
it to me. Show it to me. Show it to me.

Hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba,
hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba,

What is this?

Doesn't belong to me. Did the former
tenant leave this behind?

I need to distract my mind.

Everywhere I go... Men and women follow
me with eyes of desire.

Every woman wants me.

Every man wants to be me.

For I am like a swan, levitating above
the fetid swamp that is the

crystalline hotel.

Hot damn, it is time to masturbate.

Crystalline Hotel, how may I serve you?
This is Jonathan Barrows. My room has

been vandalized.

Like, what did they, like, do?

Well, they opened my suitcase and cast
all of my possessions around the room,

upset the garbage can, emptied a bottle
of shampoo, and even spray -painted the

wall.

Well, how do you know it was, like, a
they that did the vandalizing? I don't

know. Someone.

Oh, so you think it was, like, one
person that trashed your room? What if

a gang?

I have no idea how many were involved.

You don't know how many people were
involved. No, I don't know.

Well, what if it was, like, an animal or
something?

Look, I don't know who or what did this.
I was just like, someone sent over to

my room to clean it up now.

Well, was anything stolen?

I mean, why don't you, like, call the
police?

I'm not going to call the police. The
police are not professional cleaners.

so far as I can tell, nothing's been
stolen. And if the police are as

incompetent as the rest of you in Benton
Harbor, then there's really absolutely

nothing they can do.

Simply is not the case. Could you please
send somebody over to clean up my room

now? What do you want me to do about it?

Okay, perhaps I'll repeat myself for the
purpose of emphasis.

Would you get over here and clean up my
fucking room now?

That ain't my job. That ain't my job at
all. Then send somebody else to do it.

Like who?

I don't know, like the maid.

The maid?

Yes, the maid. Send her fucking ass over
here to clean it up now.

The maid's off today.

What? I said the maid's off today. What
does that mean?

She's, like, went home. She's, like,
really tired and shit.

Are you telling me there's only one maid
in this godforsaken place?

No. I'm, like, sometimes the maid, but,
like, a male maid and shit, you know?

Like, sometimes I do the shit that she
does when she's not, like, working and

shit, you know?

Um, but I'm not, like, really a maid or
anything.

Well, then get over here and clean up my
fucking room now.

Why don't you clean it up? Why don't I
clean it up? Because that's what you

helots are paid to do. What's that mean?

What? Helot.

Helot. A helot is a slave, a slave like
you.

I ain't your slave.

The maid ain't your slave either. She's
not like your personal cleaner or

anything. Shit your whore.

Look, if you're not capable of coming
over here and cleaning up my room,

following simple instructions, which
you're obviously incapable of doing,

please send someone else to do it. There
is nothing I can do, Mr.

Hoity Toity.

I'm lounging by the Chris Flynn Hotel
reading my translation, the unique

individual in its property.

Every now and then I stealthily massage
the tip of my penis with my free hand.

What you reading?

Strings of letters.

If you could summarize the whole book in
one sentence, what would it be?

Oh, I could summarize the entire text in
three words. Really?

What would those words be? Leave me
alone.

I am daydreaming.

I dream of me dancing, my penis flopping
up and down gracelessly in the wind.

The object of sexual desire is never
elegant.

Heterosexual men find breasts
stimulating.

For the same reason that heterosexual
women find penises stimulating.

Because they look absurd.

Breasts and penises are grotesque and
for that reason are stimulating.

What is this?

Go away.

Do you want to see my thong?

What? I said, do you want?

See my thong.

What are you saying to me, she -thing?

My name's Mandy.

Mr. Nibble Toes. Here, let me show you

my thong.

You could fry eggs on my bra.

All right, well, thank you for the
delightful visit. Unfortunately, I'm a

preoccupied. What's the matter?

Don't you like girls?

Do you really consider yourself to be a
girl? You're an aging bar slut.

And I'm 35, and I still got some...

Okay, Manuela, let me explain this to
you. I'll put it into a language you can

understand. My name's Mandy.

Mandy. Well, you know, you're no more
important to me than a random coil of

donkey feces sprawled on cobblestone
suburban streets. What? I'm sorry?

Yeah. My eyes are

softened by the midnight ebony.

I'm alone with the music of my mind.

But what's this now?

A deafening cacophony of rap rock, hip
hop, bling blang, adult alt, or whatever

it is they call it these days, ripples
through the walls.

Someone, I think it was the great German
philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, once

wrote, the mind is like a diamond.

Noise fractures that diamond, the darkly
glimmering solitaire.

With every blow of noise that strikes
it, the diamond's value worsens.

My name's Basha. My name's Buttermilk. I
like the music, but I'm an expert at

it. Who in Sam's Hall do you think you
are?

Who am I?

I'm Jonathan Barrows, and I'm infinitely
more intelligent, infinitely more

attractive, and infinitely more charming
than you.

I don't like that he's stuck on himself.

He's kind of cute.

Playing hard to get.

Smells so good, Mr. Super Duper. We can
forgive you for the mean things you say.

How can you not love this music?

This is not music.

Music in the true sense of the word is
music of thought.

This noise leads you away from yourself.

It disrupts concentration.

Look, daughter succubus, none of this is
turning me on. You know, if you'd

really like to get me excited...

And why don't you turn the fucking music
down and leave me the fuck alone?

Anything you want, Mr. Super Duper.

I love to look at male nipples.

Show me your male nipple.

You know, you remind me of my cousin
Joshua.

You guys have the same exact eyebrows.

You know, my cousin Joshua always liked
me a lot, but...

I never really thought much about it
until I turned 18, and then he called me

one day, and he said, Hey, babe, let's
go to the Lobster King.

So we went on a date, but I didn't
really know it was the date at the time.

After we left Lobster King, he said, You
owe me, babe, for the lobster.

You know you owe me, babe, for the
lobster.

That's what he said.

He drove us to the Burger God parking
lot. Then he tried to pull down my

and stick his finger into my asshole.

I filled that latex gloves all over my
ass and I yelled, Stop it, you fucking

pervert. What the fuck do you think
you're doing?

He sang like a dead lobster that had
been left out in the air for too long.

He shoved his hand under my skirt and
started playing with my asshole.

And then he said,

Give me some of that sweet loving, babe.
We are relatives and so we should love

one another.

That's when I took off my shoe and
started pounding with it. His face

and his nose got mad.

I'm so serious.

It was so gross.

You know, Cavalier once offered me $10
,000 to pose in their book of

lingerie. I'd offer you twice that sum
to keep your clothing on.

You know, you should be nicer to us, Mr.
Super Duper, if you want what you want.

The three of us could have some fun
together.

Doing what?

Doing some sexing! I don't have sex.

I have coitus interruptus mater.

So you want to pull out before you nut?
Back at work.

No, I'd like to interrupt sexual
intercourse indefinitely.

You're the result of an unhappy
abortion.

I love myself.

I love myself.

I love myself.

I love myself.

I love myself.

I love myself.

I love myself.

I love myself.

I love myself.

I love myself.

I place my briopic member between the
thumb and forefinger of my left hand. I

stroke myself into a froth. I throw
myself into ecstasy.

I think of my buttock, their curved
form.

Desire crests in my gut.

Semen is ever -secreting life sap. A
geyser of semen is a volcanic inferno.

I feel such passion for myself.

I am a semen explosion waiting to
happen.

Love myself. Love myself. Love myself.

Spent my vision fading, I drift into
somnolence.

My sleep, it is vigorous.

Malodorous lunchroom whores.

Oh,

how many parties, sir?

Table for one. Whenever you say the
words table for one to the maitre d',

almost certainly guaranteed the most
secluded table in the entire restaurant.

Except tonight.

There's a couple at the table next to
mine.

Perhaps I can ask the waitress for a
petition.

I quickly order the lobster thermidor. I
will dine and depart.

The waitress tells me that Lobster King
is a populist establishment and does not

offer lobster thermidor.

I order the lobster pate instead.

They watch me watching them.

I watch them watching me.

What in God's name do they want?

Excuse me, sir.

Hi.

Would you like to join us at our table?

Well, I was seeing you all by yourself
here, and I said to my wife, I said to

her, God, you're so lonely.

Why don't you come over here and dine
with us?

I can see you're all by yourself. Come
be friendly with us. We can have

fun.

Lonely? That word has no meaning to me.

I'm always alone, but never lonely.

Loneliness is a feeling that I have
never experienced.

Only the feeble are lonely.

Only the lonely are feeble.

Solitude is the preferred state of
being. I have no choice but to join

Even if I remain at my table, they will
still try to engage me in conversation.

I will impale them with words.

Hello, my name is Jonathan Barrow.

My name's Brian.

This is my wife, Beata. We just got
married two months ago, didn't we, hon?

I'm deeply sorry to hear that.

Marriage is the destruction of the
individual ego.

You...

Are dressed so darkly, Mr. Burroughs, do
you always wear dark colors?

Perhaps my colors are lucid. Perhaps
your eyes are too dim to see them.

Uh, Beata and I were just discussing the
abortion issue.

As a woman, of course, Beata supports a
woman's right to choose what she could.

You know, there are only a few female
pro -lifers.

I, myself, am a sensitive 90s kind of
guy, so I support a woman's right to

choose as well.

Everyone should be pro -choice.

Are you pro -choice too?

No.

Well, that's fine. You know, the one
great thing about this country is the

diversity of opinion.

Everyone has the freedom to speak his or
her own mind. Difference is good.

You must be pro -life then, and that's
perfectly fine.

No.

Well then, where do you stand on the
abortion issue?

I'm pro -abortion.

Pro -abortion?

What does that mean?

Who in their right mind would actually
support abortion?

Oh, no, I know.

He's speaking in a farcical way.

Really, though. Seriously.

Abortion is no choice any woman wants to
make. It is almost certainly traumatic

for her. But nonetheless, it is her
body, so who am I to say? Who is any man

say really what she can? Young women
should be encouraged to get pregnant and

abort their fetuses.

Chit -chat, chit -chat, chit -chat, chit
-chat, chit -chat, chit -chat, chit

-chat, chit -chat, chit -chat, chit
-chat, chit -chat, chit -chat.

You know, it's customary for people to
talk to each other while sitting at the

same table.

Someday you'll be pressed into mush by
the tires of an 18 -wheel truck loaded

with frozen cartons of banana ice cream.

Brian is such a sweetie. He tells me
every day that I am every man's fantasy.

A fantasy.

Yes, true to a certain extent. You're an
oasis of the mind.

An oasis that neither promises nor
yields refreshment.

Listen, Mr. Know -It -All. That's my
wife, and you don't insult her. Your

arrogance is really arrogant.

I can tell that you're smart and all,
but you're not the only smart person in

Benton Harbor, Michigan.

The more that you attempt to insult me,
you're only affirming my infinite

superiority.

You're no more than an agog spectator of
my greatness.

Why don't you leave, sir? You have
crossed a line.

Watch out.

Will the interview never take place?

Who's the interview?

Yours, Mr. Barrow?

Yes, my interview. Will my interview
never take place?

Hasn't Dr.

Mendoza contacted you yet? No, Dr.

Mendoza has not contacted me yet. Did
you tell him I would be staying at the

Crystalline Hotel?

Yes, Mr. Burroughs, I did tell him that.

When? Two days ago.

And what did he say?

To what?

What did Dr. Mendoza say when you told
him I would be staying at the

Hotel? He didn't say anything. He
nodded.

Did he acknowledge that he knew who I
was?

No, unless that nod was a form of
acknowledgement.

But that nod could have also merely been
a sign of indifference or boredom.

Perhaps he didn't know who you was.

Perhaps he wasn't listening.

Perhaps he only nodded to appease me.

Ms. Grimlogger, what exactly did you say
to him?

I told him a Mr. Burroughs came by for
an interview.

I also told him that you would be
staying at the Crystal Inn. And what did

say? How did he respond?

As I told you, Mr.

Burrell, he nodded, and that was it.

Miss Grimlogger, is Dr.

Mendoza here now? No, Mr.

Burrell. Although, as I told you, he'll
be teaching a seminar on Monday evening.

He only has one teaching responsibility.

May I speak to the director of the
School of Learning?

If you like. But she has nothing to do
with the interview or the hiring

The position for which you applied,
Professor of Intelligent Thinking, is

province of Dr.

Mendoza and him alone.

You know, Mr.

Dainty Shoes, you look a lot like that
actor.

Which actor? You know that actor?

Hmm.

What's his name?

You know. Hmm. Let me think.

I know.

You look just like that Jude Law.

Excuse me, madam, but I do not resemble
Jude Law.

Do you like looking at my hair?

Do you like it wavy?

I do not understand Miss Grimlocker's
bizarre behavior.

I do not understand why I have not yet
been interviewed.

I do not know where Dr. Mendoza is. I do
not understand why Dr.

Mendoza has not yet telephoned me. I do
not understand why I am here. I do not

understand why everyone in Benton Harbor
is seemingly deranged.

I will find Dr. Mendoza and have my
interview. The fact that I haven't

a telephone call from him is profoundly
insulting.

The dirty fucker denied me my interview.

Dr. Mendoza invited me to the Benton
Harbor Community College to be

for a tenure stream position. I received
an email from him in which he stated

this explicitly.

Ms. Grimlocker? Her ignorance was
studied. She knew exactly who I am. She

me three email messages. Secretaries
like dogs are all fascists. No one ever

forgets Jonathan Barrow. I did not
receive the interview that I was

I do not wish to teach this asylum of an
institution.

None the however, I demand an interview.
Dr. Mendoza will interview me, or I

will kill him.

Either or.

Simply because murder is illegal, this
does not mean that it is immoral. If Dr.

Mendoza refuses to interview me, I will
kill him.

No one denies Jonathan Barrows an
interview. It is here that Dr. Mendoza

instruct the seminar in 35 minutes.

I am going to get him.

When the appropriate time comes, I will
leap forward and demand my interview. If

he refuses to grant me my interview, I
will annihilate him. Even if he does

grant me an interview, I will pummel him
with my fists. I will break him open.

For my entire life, I have been
disinherited, disfranchised, and

I have been denied what rightfully
belongs to me. I am waiting for Dr.

to teach me.

I wait to be educated.

Do you not hear the cry of the planet?

it is summoning you to enter the
community.

How do you respond to this call?

How do you become part of the community?
The answer is simple.

Marry.

Marriage is not, as is often thought, a
simple thing.

It is not merely the union of two self
-contained individuals.

When she marries, A lady is no longer an
individual.

She is now a member of the community.

A gentleman, when he marries, is no
longer an individual.

He too is now a member of the community.

They are not merely bound to one
another.

Together they are bound to the
community.

Together they have family fun.

Marriage seals your contract with the
commonwealth.

damps your individuality with a social
character.

A woman is not a woman unless she is
married to a man.

A man is not a man unless he is married
to a woman.

Once you become married, you will
produce children who will someday also

part of this vast human ocean which is
the community.

One must not think of marriage then as a
personal relationship.

I do not fuck my wife's vagina.

The community fucks her vagina.

My wife's vagina is not my personal
property.

It belongs to the community.

The pleasures of life are not restricted
to those of the solitaire.

Nothing is more joyous than a wedding.

And no one is happier than a spouse.

Oh, the sweet joys of communal being
together.

Give yourselves up.

Give up your solitude.

And be part of this great human mosaic,
which is life.

All of this whoop -dee -doo about the
individual.

An individual is nothing more than
someone who avoids their social

As a result...

He will never be something greater than
himself.

His life will never be socially
productive, and thus will never be

They refuse to marry.

The individualists think of themselves
as isolated atoms floating

through space.

We are all glued together in an
invisible web, that myriadic network

call life.

If I smash my fist on the table like so,
someone in the Czech

Republic is bound to feel the
reverberation.

Shatter your sanctuary.

Burn down your citadels. Tear down the
screens that shield you from other human

beings. Give yourselves up.

Give yourselves up to the community.

Enough.

What nonsense? How dare you, sir?
Question the supremacy of the

The individual is the origin of all
value, not the community.

It's the extraordinary individual who
determines what's meaningful.

He alone brings value to the world, and
if for no other reason, is why the

individual comes before the community.

You communitarians. You worship the
throng. You idolize the average. In this

culture, everything is...

Reduced to the ordinary. Everyone is
forced to be like everyone else.

that's said is what one already knows.

Nothing must remain extraordinary.

Nothing must remain mysterious.

What we're witnessing is the
banalization of the world and nowhere is

evident than at this place of learning.

What you teach is the reaffirmation of
what these students already know.

This excremental institution doesn't
even deserve to be called a college.

Nowhere have I seen such a pack of
morons in my life.

You're all poor, you're all stupid, and
because you're poor and stupid, you're

religious fanatics. And worse, slaves of
the state.

You think he's so good, don't you?

You like to think he's so good.

Turn him on his chest.

Get the plunger. Get the plunger.

Got it. I got the plunger. Yeah.

Now I know.

Now I understand.

Now I understand why these things
happen.

Now I understand why these things happen
to me.

Now I understand why that which is
happening to me is happening to me.

Now I know why these things are
happening to me.

Desire is hatred.

Desire is hatred.

Desire is hatred. Desire is hatred.
Desire is hatred. Desire is hatred.

At the age of 28, I murdered my so
-called

dissertation advisor.

Simply because murder is illegal, this
does not imply that it is unethical.

He destroyed my career.

On more than one occasion, he took me by
the shoulders and shook me fiercely,

shouting, Good God, man.

Get out of the library and go swim in
the deep currents of life.

Real life isn't in the books.

Whenever someone says, get out of the
library, that person means, I want you

be as illiterate as I am. Whenever
someone calls you a nerd, that person

your powers of thought exceed my own.

I saw him as he was.

Dead matter. A mechanical object. Like
all mechanical objects, he would be

dismantled. His penetrable mind was
transparent to my gunning vision.

I would murder him. There was simply
nothing else to be done.

I had it in my mind to pierce the
aperture of his penis with a sewing

My advisor once advised me... I heard
you applied for a position at Princeton.

We'll see how that goes.

Whenever someone says, we'll see how
that goes, this means you don't have a

chance.

I know why you are here, Mr. Barrows.

You feel wrongly that I negated your
chances of professional success.

I contacted the Career Development
Center. I know precisely what you did.

Debbie made a grave mistake.

She won't be getting tenure, that's for
sure.

Forgiveness will make you a better
person, Mr. Barrows.

The doctrine of forgiveness promoted by
our founder, Jesus of Nazareth.

And you are cross with me.

I can understand why.

I could not recommend you with any
measure of confidence.

It does seem that someone with an ego as
large as your own would not be well

suited for academia.

A scholarship implies a certain level of
self -sacrifice, as well as a respect

for a discipline greater than you.

One could express your deficiency in
positive terms, of course. You are a

-directed individual.

But there are, I fear, certain drawbacks
to your fierce individualism. You are

far too self -subsistent to be a
scholar.

This is far too juvenile for you, Mr.
Burroughs. Really, these adolescent

hijinks.

What is this about, Mr. Burroughs?

The elephant tranquilizer guarantees
that the mind would be alert, sentenced

a condition of absolute powerlessness.

What was alert was the motor that drove
him, his parasite brain.

I looked into his eyes.

I have never seen such black hatred in
the eyes of a human being.

It's so much fun to have complete
control over someone else's body.

I had it in mind to remove his penis.

Touching this man's genitals diffused me
with thick waves of nausea.

I pulled the tip of his penis while
hacking away at the base of his genitals

with the switchblade.

My hands were soon empurpled with blood.

His mouth would not accept his penis.

He was gagging violently in a frenzy of
unimaginable horror.

The corpse rotted before me.

sodden with blood. His silhouette
dissolved into the damp carpet, its

plasmic and moist with milky spume.

He's dead now, a big flesh doll.

He is not a human being anymore, just a
big, lumpy flesh doll, lifelessly

gargling black blood.

I look up at the skies.

The eternal skies are eviscerated.

Sidereal blood rains from the heavens. I
see Saturn's frothing rings, the flocus

of a dead cloud.

Dead as a sleeping day, necrophiles
spread across the vast wasteland.

The skies are a bubble with black blood.

Are these the words of a dead man?

Am I dead?

I stare at the skies and catalog the
zoology of stars.

The crucifixion is the most erotic event
in world history.

Miss Gretchen, the 26 -year -old English
teacher, should never have disciplined

Johnny Barrow.

Never, never, never, never, never.
Strip!

Why did she do this? In order to
properly grasp

her reasons, one must have a sense of
Gretchen's psychosexual history.

Gretchen never dated. Indeed, she
avoided members of the opposite gender.

idea of a penis slipping into her
vagina.

filled her with silent horror.

Only once did she extract her secret
from the deeps of silence. She told a

priest at confession.

They use those things to urinate.

I wish that I had three penises so that
I could invade all your holes at the

same time.

One week later, the priest, who will
remain anonymous, committed suicide by

shoving the tube of a vacuum cleaner
down his throat.

Sucking furiously, the vacuum drew out
pieces of his liver. Yet so intensely

ravishing was Gretchen that she inspired
her rejectees to kill themselves.

It is difficult for me to conclude this
story. I loved Gretchen. I imagined her

wriggling breasts coming loose from
their brassiere cups, those lacy

I crafted a wax mannequin in her
likeness. An exact figurine, nightly I

permeated the wax mannequin. The hollow
between her legs, that delicate fold, is

not soft and warm and moist, even though
I use corn oil.

I hammer down, again and again, on the
sliding slope of what was once her head.

Welcome back to Celebrity Abortion!

Celebrity abortions is the only game
show where you decide the outcome.

Pay no attention to the imitators.

The reality TV program has millions of
viewers worldwide, many of whom dial 1

-888 -ABORTED to cast their vote.

Only 38 % of the country demanded that
Paris Hilton cut short the life of her

three -month -old undifferentiated
fetus.

Call now.

1 -888 -ABORTED. A -B -O -R -T -I -T.

Father's rumored to be Orlando Bloom,
but Bruce Willis' paternity is also

suspected.

Robin Leach, the maitre d' of the
proceedings, announces gleefully to a

thundering audience that...

He pulls the caterwauling slime
-glistened mass out of Paris Hilton's

vagina, snips the umbilicus with a
gigantic pair of steel scissors, and

the mucus -colored creature to the
camera's eye, a burrito of meat, fat,

hair.

They share the following activities.

Television watching and fucking.

Five months of fucking and television
watching.

Instead of looking at each other, they
look at the television screen.

And then they fuck.

Bobby says little. His gruff nonchalance
guarantees his success with the members

of the opposite gender.

He spoke Jessica, Jennifer, and Judith,
the triad of Andrea's girlfriends.

Did you hear about that girl on the
news?

I even remember her name, Cheryl.

That girl got thrown off a cliff because
she blew off a midget.

What?

Cheryl, she wrote this book called I Was
Thrown From a Precipice for Sexually

Reducting a Midget.

I think she was on Oprah.

What are you talking about, Drea?

There's, like, this midget.

and Cheryl Brohmoth, and so the midget
got revenge by throwing Cheryl off a

cliff. Who the fuck is Cheryl?

Cheryl's a cheerleader.

You know this how?

The news.

And who's the midget?

The midget was blown off by Cheryl.

That kid you're babysitting, where is
he?

Johnny? He's upstairs.

Well, what if he saw us?

Yeah?

Yeah, you're 17, and I don't want his
parents to find out about that shit.

Bobby, it's not against a lot of kids, a
17 -year -old girl.

Look, I just don't want the Barrows to
find out that we've been fooling around

and shit.

I'm not gonna know.

They're away for the whole week in
Norwegian Dutchmark.

So what's up with that kid anyway?

Does he always stay in that room?

Yeah, I've only seen him outside his
bedroom once or twice.

How old is he?

He's 13.

And you're only four years older than
him? And you're his babysitter? That's

fucking hot.

He's really cute.

I mean, for a kid, I mean.

Yeah, yeah, I bet he'd love to just jizz
up your nose and shit. That's gross.

Well, I bet he would. I'd just like to
slide it on in right to the top.

No, he's not into girls.

So what is he, a faggot?

No, he's not into boys either.

What the fuck does that mean? He's not
into girls, he's not into boys?

What is he, a sheep fucker?

He's in love with himself.

Huh?

He's got a crush on himself.

What?

He makes himself hard.

Well, hold up. He takes naked pictures
of himself and he uses them to get off.

Yeah, that's why there's jizz all over
the house, Bobby. He jizzes on the walls

and stuff while looking at pictures of
his own dick.

So what does he do? Does he anal
himself, too?

Bobby, I don't know.

Does he lick his own dick and drink his
own jizz? Bobby, I don't know.

You want to go and break him in?

Come on.

Andrea and Bobby will know the limits of

pain. They will be strung up like
sausages in a meat locker.

They will be tortured like thrashing
embryos.

Fuck.

Johnny, we're just playing around.

When the freak opens its mouth, one
hears the sound of a vacuum, of the wind

echoing through an infinite abyss.

The freak is composed of two bodies
stitched together with black wire, that

she who was once called Andrea, and that
of he who was once called Bobby.

What Johnny did was not... cruel, but
rather the logical extension of the

lover's attitude.

The freak is a slippery, quivering mass
of gelatin, shivering and moist.

My mind is clean of you.

Two leaves of lettuce, a tomato slice,
and a spiderweb of mayonnaise, mustard,

and ketchup make up the first level of
the three -tiered cheeseburger

The tomato slice is succulent and rich,
flavorful and greenishly overripe.

The leaves that umbrella the tomato are
overly crisp. I prefer the lettuce on my

cheeseburger to be moist and flimsy.
There is perhaps too much egg and milk

the dollops of mayonnaise that splotch
the underside of the upper bun and douse

the hoods of the lettuce leaves.

I moisten my tongue.

Strapped to a chair in front of me is
the world's most celebrated pop diva.

She hardly looks like a celebrity at
all.

An ordinary she -creature, an
intermediate, shadowy half -form neither

woman, a youngish woman, a womanish
girl, whimpering. I trailed her in the

nightclub, seduced her, led her away
from the entourage of bouncers,

lawyers, and publicists that surrounded
her.

Don't worry, it's cool.

I'll call you later, y 'all.

After all, I am handsome, and therefore
harmless.

Once we reached my driveway, I drugged
her.

Dragged her into my duplex and stowed
her in my dining room.

She is conscious now.

Tied to the chair, half choking on the
tie that I tied around her mouth. On the

radio is her new single, Funkalicious,
from the album of the same title.

She is by no means unintelligent.

What she is, is ordinary.

Fascinating in her ordinariness, in her
banality, in her everydayness, she

interchangeable with any other 26 -year
-old American girl.

There is absolutely nothing remarkable
about her.

How is one to explain the fact that this
girl is one of the most recognized

figures in Western culture?

To say anyone can be famous may seem
banal, and yet is nonetheless true.

A man who is attacked by a tiger in a
zoological garden may become famous.

Celebrity is absolutely exchangeable.
She is not even particularly beautiful,

imaginative, or amusing.

She is not famous despite her
ordinariness. She is famous by virtue of

ordinariness. She is absolutely
indistinguishable from the average girl,

therefore is one of the most famous pop
stars in Western civilization.

Anyone in this culture may be elevated
to the status of godhood.

If all of the old gods are dead, as we
are told, the new gods are celebrities.

Their love affairs, their politics,
their inclinations, all of these

trivialities are objects of obsession.

Television is pure transcendence. My
decision to assassinate her was not

provoked by hatred.

Every human being desires desire.

Perhaps it's nothing else but the desire
to be desired.

The one who is filmed is desired.

To be filmed is to be desired.

To be desired by everyone is to become
God.

Television is the apotheosis of
experience.

The new God is the celebrity. The
celebrity is the new God. Instead of

at each other, We look at the stars.

Jesus is going to open a can of whoop
-ass on you.

That's what she said to me before I
gagged her.

Words cannot describe how ordinary.

Unusually large for such a small girl.

Completely absent of toe length.

Her toes draw back, as if retracting
into their shell.

As if they know that each one would soon
be severed from the base of the foot.

This little piggy went to market.

Color, Santa's candy.

This little piggy stayed home.

Colored, breathing, beach.

And this little piggy had roast beef.

Colored, strawberry sorbet.

And this little piggy had none.

Colored, fruit sangria.

little piggy.

Went way, way, way.

Color, plumberry, crumb. All the way
home.

You like water sports?

I do water sports.

Uh -huh.

Just like me and my mom, Rob.

Uh -huh.

She set me free.

I saw her once dining on grasshoppers
and red chili at a fashionable Hollywood

restaurant. Will her toes taste the same
way?

I'll force her to eat her own toes, too.

I will cut off one of her breasts,
fasten it to a stick, and whip her with

Soon will come the clatter of footfalls
up the drive, the booming of reports

after they batteram open the door.

Not before I shoot her head off.