Berger: “Oh yes. Very well put, of course,” he snarls viciously. “I don’t pretend to be a writer.” He spits the word out with such ugly hate that the Technician reels back appalled. . . .
Technician (aside): “I can’t bear the smell of him. Like old rotten replica cultures. . . . Like the farts of a maneating plant. . . . Like Schafer’s hurumph” ( parodies academic manner) “Strange Serpent . . . What I’m
getting at, Doc, is how can you expect a body to be healthy with its brains washed out? . . . Or put it another way. Can a subject be healthy in abstentia by proxy already?”
Berger (leaps up): “I got the health! . . . All the health! Enough health for the whole world, the whole fuckin world!! I cure everybody!”
The Technician looks at him sourly. He mixes a bicarbonate of soda and drinks it and belches into his hand. “Twenty years I’ve been a martyr to dyspepsia.”
Lovable Lu your brainwashed poppa say: “I’m strictly for fish, and I luuuuuve it. . . . Confidentially, girls, I use Steely Dan’s Yokohama, wouldn’t you? Danny Boy never lets you down. Besides it’s more hygienic that way and avoids all kinda awful contacts leave a man paralyzed from the waist down. Women have poison juices. . . . ”
“So I told him, I said: ‘Doctor Berger, don’t think you can pass your tired old brainwashed belles on me. I’m the oldest faggot in the Upper Baboon’s Asshole. . . .’ ”
Switch envelopes in clip clap joint where fraudulent girls put the B on you in favor of the House 666 and there is no health in them clap broads rotten to the