Every time classes convene in the
autumn at CLS Patrick always suffers from a severe case of Asphyxiated Social
Sickness (or, aye-ess-ess, as Doctor Kennedy Marshal reminds him on a bi-weekly
basis, passing Patrick in the hallways inquiring to him, in front of the
Varsity elite how his ass is doing, today).
Today Patrick has spent the majority of his Suicide Physical education
lab lodged inside Doc. Marshal’s office, which smells like ginseng and leather.
For the last half- hour Dr. Kennedy Marshal has been showing Patrick pictures
of celebrities asses, hoping that he will open up the closet door and at least
let in a nibble of rainbow sunshine sometime soon. She holds up a picture of
the bootleg cover of Bruce Springsteen’s Porn in the USA, and inquires to
Patrick if, seeing Bruce’s purported buttocks makes him even more anxious to
strap on seat-less leather pants.
“Noooooo,” Patrick responds to Doc
Marshal, in the fashion in which he usually responds to Doc Marshal in her
office, trying to explain to her over and over again that he is not gay, he
likes pussy very much so indeed. In fact, if he were surrounded by a liter of
pussy he would lick every dish dry until it tasted like the soil in the Sahara.
God does he love it.
Whenever Patrick mentions that word
in front of the presence of Doctor Kennedy Marshall, she looks at him as if he
is peeing in the Baptismal fount during Sunday School slash Shoot around before
Anita Mann’s illegitimate child was dipped. She looks at Patrick like he is
personally scarring a sanctified relic that was apparently meant for the
redemption and enjoyment of every single human being with the exception of
himself.
Doctor Kennedy Marshal has beady
eyes that look like raisins in mashed potatoes. Her skin is hard and glossed
and her hair is cut and styled in the fashion of a pixie doll. During the discourse of Patrick’s twice a
week lectures, Doctor Kennedy Marshall interrogates Patrick, her posture
squatted, her legs spread apart, making her appear that she is watching a
baseball pennant game form the interior of the losers dugout.
“So Patrick,” Dr. Kennedy Marshal
quickly crosses her legs and then uncrosses them, as if momentarily forgetting
that she possesses a penis. “What I hear you detailing to me is that, due to
the sociological ramification ensued from you being so tremendously caught up
with your own personal ASS, you can’t even see what sort of a crack society as
a whole and your peers in general view you as.”
Once again, Patrick sways his head
left to right.
“Noooooo,
that’s not what I was saying.”
“Well, then Patrick,” Responds
Doctor Kennedy Marshal, “Please elucidate your emotions for me in a more clear,
preferably homosexual manner so I might be of assistance.
Patrick’s eyes curve up into his
skull. He takes a full breath and then responds.
“So-kay here goes.” Patrick rubs
his hands together as if trying to generate flames. “Every year for the past
three years, at the beginning of the so-called school year, I feel exactly the
way I felt two years ago, when I was eleven and hairs were beginning to sprout
in scarce packages all over my body and then next thing I know, both my nads
and my voice dropped an octave in the same week.”
“And that is when you realized that
the baseball bat you had firmly clutched in your hand possessed an uncanny
similarity to that of the instrument you had reigning between your thighs and
that, even though you had a scepter of your own, you felt it incumbent upon you
to venture forth and claim other phallic Kingdoms of your own. ”
Patrick looks back at Doctor
Kennedy Marshall, his eyebrows forming little teepees above the lids to his
mossy, almost camouflage coated eyes.
“Nooooooo, once again Doctor
Kennedy Marshal, You took some….”
“Please,” Doctor Kennedy Marshal
says. “Call me Doctor Marshal Kennedy.”
Patrick looks back at her with
perplexed lips and still-life tongue, pointing to the sign on her door that
reads DOCTOR KENNEDY MARSHAL
in thick cardboard cutout letterheads. Each Letterhead is arrayed so that it
looks like it is coming out of either a miniature representation of a closet or
wardrobe.
“But it says on the door that your
own name is Doctor Kennedy Marshal.”
“Patrick,” Doctor Kennedy sighs,
crosses her legs for a longer length of time. “Your ASS has grown worse. It has
both deceived and deluded you; obstruction your peripheral vision from
garnering one’s true identity.”
“Huh?” Patrick says,
imitating VonBehren’s relative from Chicago.
“Only once you firmly clasp shut the cabinet
drawers of your past and frolic out into the vernal fields of your future will
you surely see the light emanating form your own ASS.”
Patrick looks at her, considers
making a crude gesture instructing her to fist herself, but on second thought
tries to remain calm by gnawing into the edge of his thumb, his fake hang nail. The toll of the gong will indicate recess in five minutes and Patrick can't help but wonder what zany crazy adventure Von Behren will have for them today as they grapple the rungs of the vessel which more or less could be emblematic of their every waking dream.
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