BOTENDADDY CHARACTER SPEAKING:
I was walking through the underground passageway, sort of an internal crossroads in the basement of the University of Pittsburgh’s Cathedral of Learning on my way to an Epidemiology lecture by Monsieur Herr Doktor Professore Calegari Hassenfuss Gryzwacz
I went to the appointed lecture hall, when I was awoken abruptly from my reverie, to see a stark and soulless sign angrily posted to the door. May I, my dearest, voluptuous reader, relate the text of it as follows:
’12:00-1:00 Calegari Epidemiology Lecture moved to 312B Clapp Hall. This room is now occupied by the Carnegie-Mellon-Pitt-Carlow-Duquesne-Chatham-RMU Joint Femynyst Creative Writing Workshop. Apologies for any inconvenience. Signed, The Provost’
‘Look, said The Librarian, a Washington-born Federal worker who was getting her Master’s in Writing at Carlow. “None of our readers know that Botendaddy doesn’t exist. They think that he created us as characters out of some sad, masculine desire to pretend that women would even talk to a hulking, slobbering freak like that.”
The punker-writer-model-chick, born and raised on the upper East Side of Manhattan and currently working on a BA in English at the Pitt Writing Department, spoke up. “Well if you hate the character so much, why is he making love to you in every post? And what’s your obsession with massive adult diapers? He’s just a compilation of different people we meet around campus anyway.”
“Women, we are getting off track.” Said The Stalker, who was currently studying for a Masters in English Literature at Chatham. “The Botendaddy is just a literary foil or construct as it were, for female writers to express their angst in an often confusing social milieu. I mean come on, how could a genre of male like that even exist? Some kind of defrocked Physician, a Scientist, an Army Officer all in one. Plus he’s mysteriously super-rich? Totally unbelievable. An utter crock of bullsh!t. And what self-respecting woman of any kind wouldn’t run away screaming at his approach?”
Hiroyuki, a Master’s student in the Pitt Philosophy department spoke up next. “Well, the Botendaddy is the man that every woman can talk to. You’d never even think of making love to him, so he’s a walking, living safe space. He’s always there. He’s never judgmental, he gives idiotic advice like the dad on Brady Bunch and he has legendary love-making skills, hell the CEO wrote him the most unbelievably massive male appendage possible. Wishful thinking there… eh old lady?”
The CEO, a Northern West Virginian who commuted in twice a week to work on a Doctorate in Business at the Carnegie-Mellon Heinz School, leaned back in her chair, sneering at Hiroyuki. “He’s like a transition male, the brother, dad, boyfriend, husband you wish you had. You can make him be anything you want. I mean if we wanted to he’d be like Indiana Jones™ or look like Fabio® or be exciting like the dude from Romancing the Stone©. That’s too easy. We needed a real life loser, a misshapen elephant man of a freak we can look down upon. He’s unimposing and is only there when you need him: break glass in case of emergency.”
Ramon, a gay, *hot* bodybuilder studying Sports Management at Duquesne, was taking notes in a little leather-bound carnet. “He’s the older guy that gay dudes don’t actually hate. He’s approachable, unassuming, kind, helpful and he goes away when you don’t want him to be there. He loves you unconditionally. He’s always totally validating at everything you do, unlike your angry, violent, shitty, gaucho dad who hates you and beats you for being a big Argentine fag.”
The punker-writer-model-chick twirled her hair dreamily, as if in a trance. She stated: “He’s also very romantic. Mourning tragically for his lost love, like Edgar Allan Poe for Annabel Lee or some Romantic-era poet’s elegy. He lives in the ancient mansion on the hill, it is pure allegory for loss and pain. He lives in this dark, macabre, early 19th Century existence. He’s fascinating and textured. I hate guys my age, they are useless, stupid, fantasy-sports-playing little sh7ts. Botendaddy is the man I would create.”
The ‘gayerer’ Park Ranger, who was studying Public Administration at Robert Morris noted: “But who the hell is actually running in these races? Where do the pictures come from? Where do all these crazy stories come from? And he’s from Cooperstown, New York? Isn’t that too obvious for a writer? Where the hell even is that place? What about his idiotic literary critiques? Do we put them back on line? And what about the stupid diet advice? I’m convinced that he’s real and that the rest of you b1tch3s don’t actually exist.”
“Oh for god’s sake, everyone’s a critic!” Sighed The Librarian.
I stopped for a double espresso at the Carrefour Coffee shop. ‘Almost Noon, I better get going to the lecture.’ I said to myself.
Peace be The Botendaddy