AIPS (Acquired Imaginary Personality Syndrome): LOVE, MARRIAGE, and the STUMP PEOPLE

I want to talk about Me.

As my loyal readers know, at times, as a result of the chemo’s after-affects, I’m possessed by an alien personality that calls himself Me. How do I know this? Why else, unbeknownst to me, would strange, outrageous, irreverent, insulting, misogynistic, and crude posts keep appearing on my blog? The blog is turning into a kind of twisted portrait of Dorian Gray document whereby my psychic demons come crawling out and signal the world about the in-dwelling creep lurking in my soul. Consider the weird interviews with corrections officers, psycho Cudighi eaters, and anonymous fudge farmers, concerning pressing social issues, like capital punishment, bio-fuels, and homophobia. This demented persona is like “The Crawling Hand,” except it’s wrapped around my cerebrum rather than throat. What’s really insidious is that Me reads exactly the same stuff I do, so I’m helpless in terms of countering his satanically intellectual machinations. Why, you may ask, don’t I simply delete these insane posts, and allow the astute, articulate, and sophisticated me that everyone knows and loves to reveal himself? In truth, I don’t know. Whenever I initiate the commands to exorcise this evil presence from the blog, a sort of mental paralysis takes over whereby my hands freeze up and grab my crotch.

And so it was I got up this morning and found that, once again, Me had tampered with my blog, and, even though, that, like myself, Me always composes his invectives in word, and then transfers the text to the blog (I’m going for a long sentence here), it was, because I had not seen the official site, too late for me to preemptively block Me from entering this, what is now, official post...

Hello all. It’s Me again!

Maureen Dowd’s July 6 column, “An Ideal Husband”(New York Times 7/6/08), solicited this response.
To the Editor:

I am a twice-divorced woman, and after my second divorce I sat down and wrote a message to women, including these words of advice:

Never marry a man who yells at you in front of his friends.
Never marry a man who is more affectionate in public than in private.
Never marry a man who notices all of your faults but never notices his own.
Never marry a man whose first wife had to sue him for child support.
Never marry a man who corrects you in public.
Never marry a man who sends birthday cards to his ex-girlfriends.
Never marry a man who doesn’t treat his dog nicely.
Never marry a man who is rude to waiters.
Never marry a man who doesn’t love music.
Never marry a man whose plants are all dead.
Never marry a man your mother doesn’t like.
Never marry a man your children don’t like.
Never marry a man who hates his job.
Never marry a man who doesn’t give you lovely and romantic gifts for your birthday and Valentine’s Day.

Susan Striker
Easton, Conn., July 6, 2008

My thoughts are this: I should clip this out and carry it in my wallet, lest some misguided woman should be so inclined as to want me to marry her. I would simply produce Ms. Striker’s letter, advise a careful reading, and point out that I hardly qualify as the marrying kind.

Taking Susan’s admonitions point by point, I would say, since I have no friends, no prospective wives need worry that I will scream at them in mixed company.

Regarding private vs. public affection, I suppose having oral sex under restaurant tables, and intercourse at home qualifies as disproportional affection.

Given that faults are objective perceptions, I would say my only fault is having none, furthermore, the most egregious fault I’ve noticed in women who’ve associated themselves with me is that they’ve associated themselves with me.

Actually, it was only my fourth wife who had to sue me for child support, since the many children begat with the first three were fathered by various strangers.

On those rare occasions when I ventured being seen outside the home with the kind of women who would have me, we sat in such isolated circumstances as to preclude the term “public.”

As for my ex-girlfriends, for them I reserve only the best stationary, since their birthdays represent an expansion of that blessed time since I last experienced their insufferable nagging.

When I’m not spinning the cat in the dryer and walking Shadow on hot asphalt, I’m feeding my parakeets Tabasco soaked marijuana seeds.

I’ll never forget the time Jack Abbot, Norman Mailer, and I had dinner in Manhattan and killed the waiter.

Music is my life. What women could resist my Rhino World Polka Collection and Neil Diamond catalogue?

Plants? I keep a number of flourishing Chia-Pets throughout my crib, and they all love me.

The mothers of the women I’ve known should thank me for relieving them of daughters who, sharper than serpent’s teeth, were, judging by my interactions with them, thankless children.

Does this mean my fourth wife’s eldest daughter, who constantly loosened the lug nuts on my Yugo, put arsenic in my CornNuts, and antifreeze in my watermelon Kool-Aid, didn’t like me?

Everyone knows I love my job with Acme Porta-Potty. Why else would I have left a lucrative position with U-M Bed Pan Disposal and night work at the United Telephone Bill Collection agency?

Here’s just a partial list of some of the more romantic gifts I’ve bestowed on a number of my ex-wives: the Kirby-Deluxe-Attachment- Set, Nostril-Hair-Devil, Ronco Mustache Wax kit, and Massengill Disposable Douche System.
…

I had a dream last night where I was playing the Stump People’s prom. Legless Divas and armless, tuxedoed gentlemen sashayed amidst Daliesque paintings of amputated vegetables and stunted, Promethean Bohemians, as they ensorcelled frustrated Wannabes drinking absinthe from ivory goblets. A baguette sodomized two sunny-side up eggs as a giraffe nibbled on the ivy invading my gutters, as Mrs. Miller strolled the malecon with sombreroed Mexicans playing Guantanamara. Suddenly a wingless dragonfly crawled into my madras cummerbund and began to suckle at my hemorrhoids.

I then awoke in a lukewarm sweat. Was it really a dream?

Then I woke up.