Once again we were at the Writer’s Workshop on a Saturday. I needed help with my Thesis. Of course it was a mistake. It is the most illiterate collection of morons ever assembled. (Political bodies aside)
“Professor, I need your help with two things. First of all, my thesis. I can’t quite get my thesis statement right. It has to be answerable with certain data.”
“Botendaddy, you realize that I am a professor of American Literature and I don’t know a f&$king thing about scientific writing. But I do know this, from looking at your opening. Throw it all away and re-write the opening and thesis statement from scratch. Kill your creation, kill your hideous Rosemary’s Yog Sothoth baby. Your opening is dogshit and your thesis statement reeks like the typical massive, thick, copious, brownuous, reeking mass of bowel movement often found in your over-sized del.ic.io.us adult diaper every single time you go for a run. Kill your writing! Re-write goddamn you! And f&$k me right here in the classroom before anyone else arrives. You make me feel so filthy, so degraded. Take me you stupid shithead!”
So dear readers, I f&$ked her. There I said it! A stately 75 year old woman. I filled her with my satanic love juices.
(Eight minutes later)
“Is that all you’ve got fatboy?”
Ramon walked in with Devon, Chief Guyasuta and the Park Ranger.
“You just f&$ked the professor!”
Said all four of the men in unison.
“So?” She said. “People f&$k. It’s called nature.”
“It smells funky in here. Like old people f&$king.” Said Devon.
“Open a godd&mned window.” Winced Guyasuta.
“Ah the smell of it! Tasty!” Smiled the Park Ranger inhaling deeply.
The girls came in next. Yes the little girlies. Not grown liberated adult women, but stinky-tw@t distaff girlies… the Beloved ladies of the Writers Workshop.
The librarian grimaced, waving her hand in disgust. “Who the hell was fu&$ing in here? Jesus, someone has a rancid twat!”
“I know that p3n!5 smell! It is Botendaddy!” Also spraach the weird foreign doctor chick.
“Enough! The Botendaddy f@&ked me! Are you all happy now!” Shrieked the Professor. “Librarian, explain to the group how to find obscure out of print textbooks.”
The librarian went to the chalkboard. (Boleans, like all aliens, detest dry erase and prefer chalk so the Bolean Nationality Classroom, the only Classroom designated for outer-space aliens has chalkboards)
“Listen shitheads, here’s the situation. Botendaddy needs a book out of print. Strike one. The book is more than 45 years old. Strike two. The book is a textbook. Strike three. Textbooks have a short lifespan due to curriculum changes and heavy use. You don’t have an ISBN. Strike four. You don’t know the exact title but oddly you have a photo of the cover. Strike Five. It’s out of stock on Assazon Strike Six.”
“So what can the Botendaddy do you fat heifer. Your ass is so fat you Obeast Lardvaark, I want to pull down your giant granny panties in front of the group and strap you with my leather belt until you cry big fat butter tears!” Screamed the Voat Fat People Hate Shitlady.
“No one cares about your stupid Fat-hate so shut the f&$k up, ass-face.” Whispered the No one Cares Lady.
“As I was saying, not every book is on one of the major online sellers. You may have to find an independent bookseller and give them a wish list or BOLO for the book. You may have to personally visit independent used book stores. You may have to contact the publisher. You may have to troll thrift store book sections or give a wish list to the Thrift Stores. There may still be State or local book repositories, but with the coast of warehousing and the advent of electronic reading devices they may have been long since recycled.”
I nodded sadly.
The PMWC put her hand on my shoulder. “In other words, you will have to do actual work to find your shitty book O’ ancient one. By the way when everyone leaves the classroom, I want you to f&$k me in the classroom here like you did the Professor.”
Peace be the Botendaddy