Missed calling
I am writing this in the dead of the night to tell y'all that I think I missed my calling. I think I should have been a surgeon. Happiest when rooting about in some poor slob's large intestine.
The reason I say this is not because I believe I empathise better with my fellow man's suffering, or that I am possessor of great dexterity when manipulating sharp tools to be employed in far more delicate tasks than peeling potatoes. No, I say this because I think I am the owner of a cast-iron stomach. Not muscularly, but mentally. Before you go away shaking your head, let me tell you, long before they find out whether a wannabe surgeon can differentiate between a man's head and his arse - not that there is much difference in most cases, stuck usually as the former is in the latter - they see whether he can stand the sight of blood. It would seriously botch an appendicitis operation if the operating doctor after splicing the guy open immediately chucks up Chicken McNuggets right into the poor man's exposed guts. And you wouldn't like your surgeon to start complaining of cramps while in the middle of your vasectomy, would you? You really need to hold on to your food when all these unappetising visuals keep popping up while you are really just "doing your job", and while engineering is great, screwing yet another oily rivet into that girder doesn't really churn the internal storage facilities.
How do I know that I got the stomach? Seven years ago I could have simply said, " 'Cause when you carry a big round moneybelt of lard 24/7 you sure as hell know you got a stomach, Dumbkoff." Thankfully, I prefer the alternate simple and elegant proof that I ate my dinner while watching Sin City. I champed merrily through the main course while Kevin's dog chomped and salivated though Kevin's torso that was missing a few arms and legs owing to recent close contact with Marv. I ate my dessert of strawberries and cream while Miho creamed and disembowled Jackie Boy and his troopers, skillfully employing several samurai swords to various soft and fleshy parts of their bodies. At the end of this gore-fest, all I could say was,
"Burp."
I think that is proof enough
posted by i at 9:51 AM
19 Comments:
Choke.. GAAAH!! Aaagh!!
Tsk tsk. You wouldn't make a great surgeon. In fact, not even a passable one. So, you are just perfect for operating on Sonia M.-Gandhi. With a rusty Conanesque sword, with barbed wire for tourniquets.
As you may see, Sin City fills me with imaginative ideas.
Till then I would encourage you to get your surgical fix playing Docto-doctor with five year olds and plastic knives.
Clinical psychologists have refined the definition of a psychopath over decades of research. Typically, psychopaths are charming, self-interested, glib and impulsive individuals. They often brag about grandiose life ambitions but utterly lack the skills or discipline to achieve any of their goals. Psychopaths are easily bored and crave immediate self-gratification. When caught in a lie, they quickly switch topics - or shift blame - with no apparent embarrassment. They do not form deep or meaningful attachments, and often end up hurting people who get close to them. While they are intellectually aware of society's rules, they feel no guilt when they break them. :-)
psychopaths are charming...
That lets me out.
Thank God for that, for I was getting worried. And little Emory just wouldn't answer. He kept gurgling. I though he was drowning. I really did. I just wanted to help. Really.
However, most psychopaths are not in jail. Hare says that the disorder does not necessarily lead to violent criminal behavior. In fact, many psychopaths find wealth and success as highly manipulative corporate careerists, as thugs on professional sports teams or as unscrupulous politicians. Experts estimate that about one per cent of the general population consists of psychopaths, while roughly one-fifth of the inmates in the country's prisons falls into the category.
But whether a criminal or a white-collar con artist, all psychopaths share a profound lack of empathy and remorse for the harm they do to others.
Sounds like an introduction to a fly-by-night thesis.
Is there any reason we should listen to Hare. We are not even sure whether he knows his two-times table.
I will settle for the highly manipulative corporate careerist. Will I get a blonde leggy secretary? Tell, tell. If the answer is yes, I will pave the paths to my psychosis with bricks of gold, and blood untold.
Is this paper more legit.?
Abstract
This article considers whether Asperger Syndrome (AS) or high-functioning autism (HFA) necessarily lead to disability or whether AS/HFA simply lead to 'difference'....
http://www.geocities.com/CapitolHill/7138/lobby/disability.htm
The author comes from Cambridge. I come from Cambridge. I am Janus-faced, and almost a psycopathic manipulator of truth, so that I can hardly be trusted. Ergo, the aforementioned author cannot be trusted.
To drive a final nail into the coffin, the article's weblink has the word "capitol hill". You can hardly trust anything coming out of there.
So there.
Fox is all happy here.
You come from India. If you came from Cambridge you would exceptionally strange. Interesting to ponder on, products of Cambridge come in 3 variations. Would you be a Hobo, a toff or Zombie?
http://www.randomhouse.com/crown/zombiesurvivalguide/
Happiness is a cigar named Pob.
I had happily be a Zombie. Suits my mental capacity, or lack of it. The only thing leading to my application being turned down by the Graveyard Council is my less than keen desire to partake of human flesh. I am vegetarian you know. That by chomping their owners, I might be leading cats, dogs and hamsters caretaker/owner/fatehr/mother-less, just doesn't warm me to that idea. If they allow me to substitute the required skill of killing and eating humans by messily uprooting vegetables and eating them, raw I might add, then I would happily join that mindless cult. I would blend in seamlessly.
Oh, and by and by, Happiness is a blonde named Sylvia. I don't mean Plath. She was a psycho, man.
"Happiness is a blonde named Sylvia. I don't mean Plath. She was a psycho, man." ahahaha =)
Above the Oxbow
Here in this valley of discrete academies
We have not mountains, but mounts, truncated hillocks
To the Adirondacks, to northern Monadnock,
Themselves mere rocky hillocks to an Everest.
Still, they're out best mustering of height: by
Comparison with the sunnken silver-grizzled
Back of the Connecticut, the river-level
Flats of Hadley farms, they're lofty enough
Elevations to be called something more than hills.
Green, wholly green, they stand their knobby spine
Against our sky: they are what we look southward to
Up Pleasant Street at Main. Poising their shapes
Between the snuff and red tar-paper apartments,
They mound a summer coolness in our view.
To people who live in the bottom of valleys
A rise in the landscape, hummock or hogback, looks
To be meant for climbing. A peculiar logic
In going up for the coming down if the post
We start at's the same post we finish by,
But it's the clear conversion at the top can hold
Us to the oblique road, in spite of a fitful
Wish for even ground, and it's the last cliff
Ledge will dislodge out cramped concept of space, unwall
Horizons beyond vision, spill vision
After the horizons, stretching the narrowed eye
To full capacity. We climb to hopes
Of such seeing up the leaf-shuttered escarpments,
Blindered by green, under a green-grained sky
Into the blue. Tops define themselves as places
Where nothing higher's to be looked to. Downward looks
Follow the black arrow-backs of swifts on their track
Of the air eddies' loop and arc though air's at rest
To us, since we see no leaf edge stir high
Here on a mount overlaid with leaves. The paint-peeled
Hundred-year-old hotel sustains its ramshackle
Four-way veranda, view-keeping above
The fallen timbers of its once remarkable
Funicular railway, witness to gone
Time, and to graces gone with the time. A state view-
Keeper collects half-dollars for the slopes
Of state scenery, sells soda, shows off viewpoints.
A ruffy skylight oaints the gray oxbow
And paints the river's pale circumfluent stillness.
As roses broach their carmine in a mirror. Flux
Of the desultory currents --- all that unique
Stripple of shifting wave-tips is ironed out, lost
In the simplified orderings of sky-
Lorded perspectives. Maplike, the far fields are ruled
By correct green lines and no seedy free-for-all
Of asparagus heads. Cars run their suave
Colored beads on the strung roads, and the people stroll
Straightforwardly across the springing green.
All's peace and discipline down there. Till lately we
Lived under the shadow of hot rooftops
And never saw how coolly we might move. For once
A high hush quietens the crickets' cry.
A shame. You would have made a great Hobo. :-)
Congratulations, i!. You have managed to start a literary argument here. And what is really funny is that it all started out with Marv(hehe) and ended (perhaps) with Sylvia Plath's "Above the Oxbow". Marv to Plath. Only you could manage this. =)
And I don't know about all the Plath fanatics(psychos, if you will =P), but that poem seems to me to be a perfect case in point. But that may just be because I didn't get any of it. can somebody do a translation for me here. Duh!! Fox, it seems to me you're not the only one who doesn't think around here. I could be your partner in the escape from the hounds of thought.
Anon, where are we escaping too? Not Pleasent Street, I hope. Strange things happen there :-)
The fact that we were able to connect Plath to Marv proves my earlier point that both were psychos. Next Plath is a plagiarist, stealing Dorothy's Over the Rainbow, and turning it into something best used to cure hangovers. Finally, I wouldn't have made a great hobo. It requires consumption of great amounts of alcohol.
ABSTAINER, n.
A weak person who yields to the temptation of denying himself a pleasure. A total abstainer is one who abstains from everything but abstention, and especially from inactivity in the affairs of others.
Said a man to a crapulent youth: "I thought
You a total abstainer, my son."
"So I am, so I am," said the scrapgrace caught --
"But not, sir, a bigoted one."
Nothing quite like Ambrose Bierce and his devilish dictionary to put a good man down. Invoking him in a wisecracking contest is akin to pulling a Beretta during a swordfight.
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