failure, an epiphany, and a glimmer of hope. but mostly failure.

1) It turns out that many Ph.D.s are idiots. It’s true! People who know idiots undoubtedly know a couple of people with doctorates. People who spend their days interacting with non-medical professionals who call themselves doctor undoubtedly have days peppered with idiot-interactions. Test this theory! Take a random sample of five idiots. At least one of them has successfully defended a dissertation. Now take a random sample of five people who have successfully defended a dissertation. At least one of them is an idiot. See? Idiots and doctorates go hand in hand, just like train station parking lots and anal sex. Or trains! Wait. A Brain Scientist is now sirening something about logical fallacies and me and commitment or committees or committed or something like that. Really? I see. It seems I am guilty of a logical fallacy with my Ph.D./idiot reasoning. Of course I am! I almost have a doctorate. Quod erat demonstrandum.

2) Even seasoned mothers with twelve years of formal experience with multiple womb fruit can inadvertently fling the entire contents of a diaper right onto the carpet and then not notice it until the baby is merrily squishing shit between his fingers. Now I have to revise my resumé.

3) I have an exercise plan I’d like to pursue, and it involves the person standing outside of H and R Block in the cartoony statue of liberty costume. If I paid that person $15, perhaps he or she would let me wear the costume for an hour and dance around with the Tax Credit! sign. I could bring my discman and listen to Siouxsie and the Banshees and get all hot and sweaty inside the foamy lady liberty (Paging Dr. Freud! – Ed.). I could probably even smoke a pipe while inside her! In addition to whittling my waist, this would put me one successive approximation closer to going to an actual dance club and actually dancing with an actual lady.

4)  Hey! I wrote foamy lady up there. I already disappoint many a poor, wanton sap who happens by after googling lovely labia or potsie cock. Now I can disappoint a whole new segment of the population. Or what I suspect is a whole new segment. I imagine the overlap in that Venn diagram is relatively small.

5) It turns out POTSIE COCK! is a very satisfying thing to yell when you realize your child has a handful of shit. It works nicely in non-fecal-fist instances too, but research thus far suggests that one’s potsie cock pleasure is maximized when one has just experienced profound failure as a parent. I imagine Marion Cunningham would say the same thing.