“What in the hell am I doing...back here?”
Welcome back, glad to see you were able to make the party for ‘Part Two’ of this epic saga.
“What in the world is going on? I was just walking my Shitsu and next thing I know...I’m here!
You’re welcome.
“You’re welcome? You’re welcome for what?”
You’re welcome that I got my wish and got you out of your miserable existence and back into this utopian paradise...that’s what!
“Well, ‘fuk’in’ me. How long am I going to be here?”
As long as you want.
“I’ve got a date tonight...wait a second, you did not correct me!”
What, you mean with “fuk’in?”
“Yes, of course ‘fuk’in.’”
I think it’s time we got a little lax with the profanity issue. There’s no way the author’s going to get this novel into the school curriculum, never mind any libraries. He’s simply dreaming.
“I buy that, so, what has been happening to the asshat know-it-all? Last thing I remember, the English professor was dressed like a girl and walking down a country road.”
Then you in all likelihood remember Schwartz had already resolved he had somehow wound up in California, was not in New York as he last remembered, through an almost unintelligible exchange with men dressed up as hospital orderlies.
“Yes, I remember.”
We are having to add a few new personalities into the mix to add some depth and breadth to an otherwise shallow, predictable character…the academic, to pull this odyssey off with any chance of success. To remedy the situation one man, a yokel from the mountains of North Carolina, has been created; his name is Tommie Citizen and he is a Mob Traffic Controller. Tommie works at the National Mob Alert System Agency headquarters in an armpit of Georgia called Waycross. Tommie is part of the early response team, dedicated souls who monitor transmissions from space, alerting those in need of the vital data, all to save lives, some property, but few automobiles.
Tommie is on eastern standard time, and therefore, three hours ahead of Professor Schwartz. The country yokel appeared at work one or two hours ago, suffering from a hangover and in need of some more nap time. It is nighttime in the academic’s part of the country, and unlike Tommie who slept in some unknown woman’s bed overnight and in all likelihood got crabs, the dignitary was having to rough it and spent the night out under the stars.
The professor spent all of yesterday walking along secondary two-lane, country roads; some paved, others unpaved, all in awful condition, looking for answers, searching for something other than corn to munch and unconsciously craving any mood-altering drug or drink he could get his hands on. For reasons unknown to the academic, his lower consciousness, the cerebellum, had been having a go at communicating with the higher consciousness, endeavoring to inform the higher consciousness it wanted to continue playing with drugs. The primitive grey matter was communicating the only way it knew how: stomach cramps accompanied by the occasional, sudden spasm of the lower intestines and sphincter muscles.
The professor, mindless of his past association with substance abuse had misread his body’s need, instead thinking his gastrointestinal pains were related to the raw corn he had been forced to eat and, or the unhealthy waters he was forced into drinking. Drug withdrawal symptoms never occurred to the professor and this miscommunication with his lower-order intelligence continued throughout most of the day. The academic, exhausted was now sleeping deeply, keeping any wildlife at bay with his bear-like snoring, wearing his last pair of girl’s panties and last tennis skirt.
Schwartz was now out of any backup clothes, and like it or not, would soon be forced to find something else to wear. Too bad, it would have been amusing to see what kind of reaction the academic got dressed up as a degenerate-appearing little girl in this “New, Future America.”
“I’m curious, for what purpose is that important to you?”
I think it would be fascinating to see what Americans in 2050, think of his attire. Will the English professor fit in with the populace? The academic is in California, after all. Will the professor be considered an outcast, possibly even a nut?
I can’t wait to find out.
-----
The genius awoke to find himself leaning up against that piece of woman’s luggage that fell from the sky, which in turn was leaning up against the trunk of a tree, in all likelihood a Weeping Willow, just off to the side of the pitted blacktop road. Before he fell fast asleep the prior evening, Schwartz had noticed the faint glow off to his left, far off in the distance, not north, but to the northwest. It had to be a town, or perhaps even a city!
Last night the professor had also dreamed...he had dreamed of those beautiful ivory towers at the university. Schwartz had dreamed of those resplendent marble halls that led to the faculty lounge where assclowns like himself discussed their wild, grandiose plans for the country, and the world. Just how had this goofnad who had achieved such heights become part of the planners for the future ‘liberal utopia?’ The only way we will know for sure is by taking a closer look at the dignitary, a peek at his education, a looksey at just how someone gets into the club of brilliance...so, here we go.
Felix Schwartz attended Columbia, first as an undergrad, then a graduate student before finally entering and finishing up his doctorate nine years later. His doctoral thesis was entitled Dialects of the American Landscape, so there was a chance the academic could adjust to the new languages, but which one?
“Nine years at Columbia? How much did the academic have to finance to pull that off?”
Finance, you mean like financing from a bank?
“Yes, or did the genius use grant money or get a scholarship?”
No, nothing paltry like that. He, or I should say, his parents paid cash on the barrelhead for college.
“Cash on the barrelhead? What on earth does that mean?”
It means cash, as in bank transfer, cashier’s check, or money order paid at the time of purchase, or in this case, enrollment.
“How expensive was it?”
What, for an undergrad degree?
“All of it, nine years.”
Goout question, give me a moment to run the math...
Humming...
More humming...
I’ve got it.
“Let’s hear it.”
Before I give you an estimate, keep in mind this was an investment in the academic’s future...a PhD in English and...and Literature.
“And...”
Also, this was for an Ivy League education and, therefore, worth every cent even though it might have been a little expensive. Do you want the numbers for tuition?
“Most students have things like room and board they have to pay for, right?”
Oh, so you want the whole enchilada?
“I’m waiting. What the hell is it?”
Just remember...
“SHUT UP AND GIVE!”
Well, at the time he went to Columbia adjusting for inflation and interest rates, it looks like tuition, room and board in all likelihood ran four to five million.
“Million like in dollars? Wait a minute, I’m a little confused, are we talking 2013, 2020, or 2050?”
Sometime between 2013 and 2020.
“The number was four to five million?”
Well, yes, but do you want to hear something truly amazing?
“I’m not sure, I’m still trying to get my head around the four-to-five million figure.”
Wait till you hear this...by 2050, given today’s monetary policy and projected runaway inflation, the same education overseas, where you can still find universities, would run you...are you ready for this?
“Yes, I guess so.”
...Are you really ready for this?
“Yes!”
It would set you back a quarter billion dollars!
Chirping noise of crickets...
I know, can you believe it?
&nbs
p; More chirping sound of crickets...
Are you there?
Still, more chirping sounds...
Are you still reading?
“Yes, but barely. Do me a favor and don’t mention those figures anymore.”
Which ones?
“The quarter-billion, whatever.”
Okay...
“All right, please answer me one question. What did an English professor make a year, at say an Ivy League university? Could such an expenditure be worth the investment?”
Did you know it was indeed hard to get a teaching gig as an English professor?
Silence...
The professor was very, no, very, very lucky to have that Columbia diploma; otherwise, the dignitary could have wound up at some junior college in Alaska teaching reading classes to Eskimos. I say that simply to say the four-to-five million spent on his Ivy League education was a meager amount when you considered the alternatives.
“How much does an English professor make?”
Now, or back then?
“Then, you ficken ninny! Same period as when he got hit by the truck!”
All right, let me see. This might be a little difficult as a result of most of the academic’s records went up in flames back during the...
“I know, I know, the Food Stamp Riots of 2025. Given you can’t find the professor’s records can you come up with any college professor’s pay slips?”
Well, yes, a nephew of mine was a physics professor at Berkley about the same time.
“What did your nephew make a year?”
$71,292.00.
“What the f@#&!”
Nevertheless, there were benefits, too!
“What kind of fool would spend four to five million on a career that would take him a hundred years to recoup...and with compounded interest to boot?”
A comfortable one.
“Well, that clarifies things a lot. How comfortable was he?”
There is no way of telling because most of his records...
“I know, went up in smoke. Do you have any idea how his nearest and dearest became affluent? It’s obvious the professor did not create it himself in as much as his whole life was spent being a student.”
Yes, that is true.
“Well, then how?”
Schwartz’s ancestors, I believe it was his great grandparents, created the family fortune. Have you ever heard of “Pixie Dust, Industries?”
“No, does it matter?”
I only mention Pixie Dust because it was the company Schwartz’s ancestors built from the ground up. A half-billion dollar enterprise and world leader in prophylactics. Pixie Dust, Industries was the company responsible for inventing the ‘French Stickler.’
“I’m not sure I care that much about the condom industry, but what you’re getting at is Schwartz’s ancestors did not just luck out?”
No, it took a lot of hard work, sacrifice and risk taking on their part.
“Work, sacrifice, taking risks, those are not traits of moonbats, are they? You did say the academic was a bonafide goofnad, right?”
Yes...
“Were the academic’s great grandparents assclowns, too?”
No, far from it, strict conservatives. The academic’s grandparents were also Republicans. It was not until you reach his parent’s generation that you see assclownism become part of the family fabric. By then several generations of Schwartz’s had attended Ivy League schools with the accompanying indoctrination working wonders in moving the family further and further ‘Left.’
“Schwartz picked up his ideology from college?”
Well, yes and no. First, you need to apprehend that the professor was a asshat because he could afford to be an asshat. There was and is a direct correlation between the amount of money one has and the kind of college one attends and the kind of liberal one is...the more of the first two, the bigger the latter.
Also, keep in mind ‘asshatism’ grows exponentially with each successive generation as each age group is subjected to having any beliefs about capitalism and conservatism eviscerated by the so-called institutions of higher education. Most wealthy families starting out as conservatives usually peak out as socialists, or communists around the fourth, or fifth generation after attending Ivy League, or Ivy League look-a-like institutions. The academician was a fourth generation Schwartz, so the academic was not quite a communist, but just on the cusp of becoming one.
“So, was an assclown a goofnad cuz they were charitable with what they possessed?”
No, moonbats are ‘Not’ charitable when it comes to giving away their own things, they are assclowns and charitable when it comes to giving away other people’s things.
“How can they call themselves beneficent?”
Well, because moonbats appear to be generous, but not through their own checkbooks, but through someone else’s checkbook.
“Don’t assclowns realize how difficult it is for most to make a living? Don’t they have pity for those having to pay for their assclownism?”
Most goofnads don’t know what it was like to hold a real job, most don’t grasp what real work is on account of they have never seen how the other half lives. The hardcore assclowns have usually lived very much like the professor, attending private schools, always having their every need met. The academic’s parents, likewise, had never had to work a day in their lives; they were like most of the assclown establishment, suckling off the trust funds left by their conservative, hardworking ancestors.
Okay, so back to today. Today the professor would continue walking that pitted blacktop road up to the time the dignitary was given the chance to turn northwest, or west, to find that distant town, or city.
Schwartz looked around at his surroundings, the inhospitable, knee-high, scrub grass was still growing everywhere all over those rolling hills that obstructed his view of everything except his immediate surroundings. At least on this secondary road there was not the litter…the broken bottles, the empty chili cans, and the used diapers and used condoms he saw at every step along the main thoroughfare. Why the genius did not think of just walking down the center of the road, or the highway for that matter, avoiding those small little entanglements is unknown. There had been, after all, no traffic, no automobiles, no buses encountered for some time. Most likely the academic was like most chicken-cac, pacifist assclowns…scared ‘cac less’ of any situation that might be risky, even a little unsafe? Kind of like the novelist.
It is possible the professor did remember in the deep recesses of his mind being hit by that first bus, or maybe…maybe he remembered the nightmare that reoccurred again last night. That horrible dream of that metal, silver, or chrome-plated monster…the monster that kept popping up in his thoughts? That metal, chrome, or silver bulldog!
Oh well, I best get going, the professor told himself as he picked himself up, then stretched with a yawn. Anathematize (damn) if this cute little skirt isn’t tight as infernos.
Taking a moment to adjust the tight-fitting woman’s garment, then his cute little tennis top; the scholarly virtuoso moments later grabbed that pretty little pink suitcase by the handle, began humming a little tune and set off to find that town, or city whose lights the dignitary had seen in the distance. His humming became silent singing…
“Do you really want to buff me?”
One of his father’s (also a college academic) favorite tunes growing up…
“Do you really want to see me squeal?”
…From one of his father’s favorite music artists,
“Do you really want to buff me?”
…Boyish Paul.
“Do you really want to seeee meee cry…?”
The academic sounded a lot like Shirley Temple with that newfound voice of his.
“Do you really want to screw meee?”
Five minutes later, walking in his normal, slow, bounding gate, the quiet singing continued...another favorite tune of his dad’s.
“Girls just w
ant to have funnnn…!”
Trouble Spotted