“The magic bullet could not possibly have done all that damage and maintain its physical integrity.”

“How could the National Archives lose the President’s brain? Brains don’t just disappear, especially the brains of Presidents!”

“Oswald was no marksman. He couldn’t hit a polka dot elephant in the desert, much less fire three flawless sniper shots in a matter of seconds.”

“94.7% of all related witnesses ended up dying under mysterious circumstances.”

“The exiled Cuban community was already agitated before the Bay of Pigs. . .”

“That curvy road should’ve never been approved for a Presidential motorcade. It was Texas, after all, for Christ’s sake!”

“Jackie O’s pink suit was the sign for the mob boys to go through with their hit.”

“The KKK and the Minutemen saw Kennedy as a race traitor.”

“If I got shot in the back of the head, there’s no way I’m thrusting backwards. Experimental physics be damned! If you get hit in the back, you go forwards.”

“LBJ was so stoked to take over the nation that he actually screwed Kennedy’s entry wound. It’s almost like Shakespeare or something, the bastard skull-fucked the dead king!”

“Kennedy was preparing to withdraw from Vietnam and the military-industrial complex simply could not allow that to happen. There was too much money to be made.”

“Bullshit!” Wingy hissed at her companion, George. “I like me a good conspiracy theory as much as the next fella, but there’s no way in hell that Kennedy was pulling US out. He was the one who escalated that whole situation into a full-scare war. Boy, I hate these non-objective partisan hacks who feel compelled to portray the guy as some sort of modern-day saint. He was an evil bastard just like every other President. You know he was behind Marilyn’s death, right? Here, have my book, JFK To Monroe: “I’m Way Better Than Some Ugly Playwright, That Stinky Jock, and My Little Brother Combined!”

“Latin is the best fucking language, especially in its written form. In addition to being the cornerstone of numerous modern tongues, Latin rocks because it has no defined sentence structure. There are no set-in-stone rules dictating the order of words in any given sentence. Of course, there are some general guidelines, but there’s nothing like the English law of Subject-Verb-Object. One can put his or her Latin words in any order he or she damn well pleases. As a matter of fact, there’s a certain art to it since the order of the words can convey more meaning than the actual words themselves. For instance, by placing a certain word in a particular position, the author can emphasize it. Unfortunately, there is no such similar technique for this means of expression in the English language. Instead, we must rely on pathetic little tricks, such as: TYPING IN ALL CAPS, italics, bold print, underlining, or the occasional hy-phen. An even cooler feature of Latin is the optional use of some words. That is, many terms in Latin are implicitly understood within the context of a sentence, such as pronouns. Though, if one wishes, they can always include these words for emphasis or other subtle shades of meaning. A sentence in Latin is thus a true work of art, whose very structure communicates a message to the reader. Speaking Latin, on the other hand, seems to me like it would be one giant word jumble. Rather than paying careful attention to the speaker, the listener, I feel, would be constantly trying to put everything into an understandable order. This may be one reason why it’s now officially a ‘dead language,’ taught to us in the written form, but never spoken. However, this opinion is naturally coming from my skewed perspective of learning Latin in terms of already knowing English. The Romans could probably shoot the shit just like everybody else,” I say while envisioning Jim naked.

I’m practicing my Senior Latin speech, which I must deliver to my class in the morning. It is my final test of smartitude before I’m allowed to be stamped as an official OSU graduate.

“How was it?” ask I.

“Pretty good, except you said ‘fucking,’” responds Jim.

“Fuck!” shout I.

“And ‘shit’ too,” adds Jim.

“Well, the ‘shit’ I kinda did on purpose. I figure it’s my last little fuck you to all them uptight academics. Plus, it’s in the conclusion and is a somewhat accepted idiom and my Prof is relatively cool. But I’ll fail for fucking sure if I drop an F-bomb in there. That’s my biggest problem talking in formal social situations, I have to consciously suppress my normal manner of speaking. Fucking society, man!”

“Whatever, that was awesome, Sandy. It was all deep and shit. Just leave out the vulgarities and you’ll be done and we can finally go on tour.”

Initially, Jim didn’t really want to embark on the Depressed Idealists’ first tour outside of Ohio. You see, the plan was to load up Van’s van and go off to rock America once the semester was finished. However, our drummer was still totally gaga over Nike as spring began to blossom and anyone who reached puberty in the Midwest knows that all that fresh pollen tends to send some kind of crazy “love” message to most people’s nervous (or is it hormonal?) system (to me it just sends allergies). I’d never seen Jim this serious about a female before. Maybe it was true love, who the fuck knows? I claim complete ignorance on such topics.

So, obviously, Jim wasn’t itching to go off with the boys if it meant leaving his special ladyfriend behind. But then, something changed. As always, paradise got fucked. Sometimes, paranoia can be a soothsayer’s best asset.

A triad of men in identical black suits and sunglasses simultaneously pulled their black Lincoln Town Cars into the Denny’s parking lot. Fortunately, there were three separate entrances as these are not the type of men who would yield to another vehicle. They then proceeded to take adjacent seats at the counter. Each ordered black coffee.

In a nearby booth, Bobby leaned over and asked Van if he was sober yet. As Van merely grunted, Bobby told him to “get a load of the honkies in the matching outfits.”

Van couldn’t fucking understand Bobby’s metabolism at all. The guy could be drunk as fuck at some hick bar, then after one sip of shitty-ass Denny’s coffee, he’d miraculously become as sober as a teetotaler. Though, given his own throbbing headache (too much booze, not enough weed), Van didn’t really want to follow this train of thought.

Speaking of pot, Van soon began to suspect that it was rather peculiar that Bobby would point out some matching honkies at a Denny’s in Ohio. That’s kinda like pointing out a fucking animal in a zoo. Intrigued, Van mustered up all of his brainpower to ponder this puzzle. Bobby did tell him that they were going to see the infamous Mr. X that night. Then they drove all the way to “The Hole” and there was no Mr. X at that shithole. Now, they’re conveniently at Denny’s when Bobby, a man known for routinely fucking with people’s heads, casually points out these random dudes.

Concluding that one of them must be Mr. X, Van sets his body in motion.

“Excuse me, Mr. X?” shouts Van in the direction of the counter.

Due to reflex, all three of the men suddenly turn around.

Things, stuff, ideas, questions filter through my head constantly. Who am I? What is the meaning of life? Is there any meaning? What do I mean? Am I too mean? What is that shit floating in my drink? Should I wash my hands? Why am I so paranoid? What is it that parannoys me? Why can’t I ever say what I’m trying to say? Why can’t I ever do what I want to do? What do I want to do? What does do mean? Am I a freak? Am I insane? Was I once sane? Am I going insane? What is this bump on my harm? Do I have TB? Is someone watching me? Is there always someone watching everyone? If so, who is watching the people doing the watching? When will this all end? What will the end be like? Is there an end? Do two lines that gradually approach one another ever actually meet? What do they say to each other when they do meet? Does God exist? Do many gods exist? Did or does Jesus exist? Why didn’t He get down from the cross and tell His Dad to go fuck Himself, like every other son? Do I exist? Does anyone exist?

Jim has locked himself in his room. He has not left in days. Often, I hear the sound of shit getting broke in there. It’s creepy living with a guy who’s in this kind of tortured mental state. I adore Jim. I desperately want him to be okay. At the same time, I’m concerned that his rage may turn on me. I figure that something must’ve happened with Nike. But I really don’t know what’s going on at all. I hope he comes out soon.

“The nineties should be more like the sixties, brother. It’s like here we are coming towards the end of the century and the millennium. Shit should really be getting fucked up left and right. It’s a historical fact that the end of significant time periods are often associated with spasms of mass revolt. The tumultuousness of the sixties should be happening again now, brother. The year 2000 is only a few years away and what’s going on? Nothing, that’s what. I just don’t get it. Why would history lie to me?” An OCP comrade was talking with me (a rarity, since it was with and not at).

“Yeah, I don’t know what’s up either. I’ve been waiting for some serious shit to start myself. I’m like totally obsessed with the sixties too. And I thought the nineties would be the next sixties or something. Just look at all the other historical indicators. The sixties were prefaced by the complacency of the fifties, right? And what decade was more complacent than the Republikan Reagan-Bush eighties? Plus, what galvanized all the movements of the sixties?” I enter what I hope will be a conversation and not simply a lecture on the alleged virtues of Communism.

“A firm belief in the need for constant class struggle,” states the OCPer firmly.

“No, not so much. Though, that may have surfaced later. What I was getting at was the Civil Rights Movement and then the Vietnam War. Race and war, they were the principles from which all the movements grew. And look what was going on a few years ago. You had the riots in L.A. around race and you had that lame-ass war in the Gulf. Still, nothing happened. Even most scholars of the sixties thought the nineties would be the next great decade for the struggle. But what do we get? Jack-fucking-shit, that’s what. Maybe it’s complacency or our generation’s inability to concentrate on shit, thanks to growing up on TV. Or maybe The Man’s simply too powerful now. Who the fuck knows? Whatever it is, the world keeps sucking and nobody seems to give a crap. It all pisses me off so fucking much!”

“I hear you, brother. That’s why we need a broad-based Communist workers’ revolution. The class struggle is never ending. The bourgeoisie will be crushed, but we must keep up the struggle in the time being. Workers of the world unite! In the latest Revolutionary Worker, Bob Avakian says. . .”

“You go to school, you don’t work,” I point out.

“What?” replied the OCPer, returning to robot mode and thus not listening to me as usual.

“Nothing.”

Why bother arguing with someone who has a prepared speech and will continue spouting it no matter what the fuck you say? When will the Commies learn that no one will ever hear their message if they don’t convey it in a language that is comprehensible to the vast majority of the population?

I gaze intently at my fingers, which I’m stretching out so that I can play my guitar soon, as he finishes his “factors of production” speech.

“So you wanna buy a paper, brother? It’s got the whole Avakian article in it,” he explains as he switches gears from robot mode to peddler mode.

“No, that’s okay,” I mutter as I wonder why the OCPers spend so much time selling papers and so little time fomenting revolution. That’s America for you, even the good old Commies are Capitalists. USA! USA! USA!

When he first saw her in the mirror, he nearly choked on the toothpaste swirling around in his mouth. He couldn’t believe that such a stunning woman could possibly make such atrocious noises.

Of course, he knew this day would come. He just didn’t know when exactly. He figured it would be during his initial semester at OSU, probably in September or October. However, today was only his first day away at college. He would certainly be surprised, and maybe even a little nervous, if he were the type of person who got surprised and nervous, but he’s not.

He is Charles Watson Skinner, or “CWS” as his 100% fastened button-down shirt so often proclaims. He has no time for emotions, especially not now, for he must act fast to claim what he believes is rightfully his.

“Hello, my name is Charles Watson Skinner,” he announced with precision.

Though, he did hesitate momentarily to ponder whether greeting a stranger of the opposite sex in a co-ed bathroom was proper. “To the heck with the rules,” he decided. “It’s perfectly acceptable in modern society to get a little crazy when it comes to love.”

“Hey there, Charlie! Sorry for the smell. It’s pretty rank, ain’t it? But whatchya gonna do? I’m lactose.”

Charles wasn’t really listening to Nike. Nope, he was too busy admiring her beauty and analyzing the situation so he could figure out his next move.

“My name is Nike. Nike Steaminson,” she added, punctuating her introduction with an outstretched hand.

He desperately wanted to shake it. To touch her flesh and caress it forever. Still, he couldn’t help but think: “She hasn’t washed her hands yet.”

As always, Charles responded with accuracy and efficiency. Feigning a sneeze, he grabbed some paper towel and covered his nose. Then he quickly turned on the faucet and rinsed his sneeze-covered hand. His hope was that Nike was merely distracted by his handsome appearance and that his hand washing would cue her memory.

Instead, Nike was merely cued to say, “Gesundheit!”

Charles (who always has, at the very least, five alternative plans for even the most banal situations) couldn’t help but notice that the paper towel dispenser behind him was nearly exhausted. It was for this precise reason that he grabbed the paper towel from that particular dispenser, thus exhausting its supply. In addition, it was the only dispenser in Nike’s line of vision since she was currently facing him. Therefore, he was able to pretend that he couldn’t dry his hands and could thereby ask for a rain check on that handshake. CWS solves another one, woo-fucking-hoo!

Unfortunately, Nike turned around and snagged some paper towel from the other dispenser for her new friend. She thought he was kinda cute. He reminded her of that dorky kid from high school. The one who always got so nervous around her that he psychosomatically responded by endlessly hiccupping.

For a fraction of a second, Charles was actually stunned by this response. He completely failed to factor Nike’s turning around into the equation of likely outcomes. He had never been stunned by a woman like this before. As he attempted to regain his composure, he came to the sudden conclusion that she must be the “one.”

Then, just as he finally solved the perplexing handshake problem and determined his next move, she skipped out of the bathroom. As she exited, she waved her hand under her nose and shouted, “Smell ya later, cutie!”

Charles, shocked once again, ejaculated (prematurely, as always), “I love you, Nike Steaminson!”

But, alas, she was already gone.

After such a poor performance, Charles decided that he definitely needed a nap. So he walked briskly back to his room, placed his toothbrush in its plastic case, exchanged his three-piece suit for his monogrammed pajamas, and climbed into his bunk. At 4:00 PM, he would arise (without the use of an alarm clock) completely certain that he’d be able to conquer his newfound love and begin to study for his midterms.

The men in suits were in a state of panic. The first rule of The Business is “never expose yourself in enemy territory.” And a Denny’s in Ohio is definitely enemy territory. They have like armed militias in that godawful state and everyone knows crazy backwoods militiamen only eat at Denny’s and, only then, real late at night. For all intensive purposes, they fucked up. Big time. Now, it’ll take months for them to set up another meeting. Though, they did attempt to cover their tracks. Each man dashed out of the diner, hopped in their respective vehicles, hightailed it the fuck out of there, and firebombed their assigned Lincoln Town Car in an abandoned parking lot.

Still, their Boss was far from fucking happy. While getting reamed out, each man thought silently to himself that they should just go back to being cops. At least then, they could fuck up all they want and never get in trouble. They could even kill people and simply say, “That motherfucker had a gun, I fucking swear! Oh, it was a candy bar. Ah, well, fuck em. Let’s go get some donuts.” No responsibility whatsoever, that’s what they craved. That and donuts.

Jim grabs Stan tightly around the torso. The fireman-carry is utilized and Stan is successfully removed from his computer terminal. Stan moans some hacker gibberish for a moment and then quickly falls asleep, thereby burning Jim with his unattended cigarette. Sadly, pain and loss are just part of the price one must pay to play rock n’ roll in Ohio. And the Depressed Idealists are playing the OCP protest tonight.

“Who is playing, sir?” Charles inquires politely.

“Whaddyamean who’s playing, kid? What are you, some sort of fucking faggot?” responds an incredulous Mr. Steaminson.

“No, sir,” avers Charles as he sticks out his chest. “In fact, I’m quite the opposite. My visit this evening actually has a sinister motive. I would like to ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage, sir.”

“What’s that you say? You’re left-handed.”

Charles stammers, “No, I’m right. . .”

Waving his hand dismissively, Mr. Steaminson interrupts, “Shut the fuck up, kid! Our Buckeyes are about to score another TD against that pussy Michigan defense. Wolverines, ha! I just hope no fucking Commies run on the field like last year. Boy, was that a fucking travesty! We were about to beat them bastards for the first time in years and some goddamn Red runs onto the field and tackles our guy en route to the end zone. Why couldn’t the asshole tackle a Michigander for Christ’s sake? After all, we’re the ones that wear red, they should like us. Go! Go! Fuckign-a! Touchdown! Fuck yeah! Hey, Charlie give me five. No, I don’t want your money.”

“Sorry, sir. I thought it was a dowry joke.”

“Huh? What the fuck’s a dollary? Oh, well, nevermind all that. Why don’t you go on and fix up them there steaks for us, Charlie, while I watch the end of the game? Then over dinner, we can talk about your perversities or what have you.”

“Yes, sir! How would you like yours done?”

Upon hearing Charles’ sycophantic voice emanating from downstairs, Nike could feel goose bumps sprouting all over her body. Panicking, she hastily dressed and climbed out her window just like she did for dates in high school. She knew that eventually he’d show up to pop the question, but this was way too soon. She hadn’t had enough time to think things through and figure shit out yet.

Assuming it would take about an hour or so for her old man to chase Charles out of the house, she decided to run up to her old elementary school’s playground, smoke some weed, and do some thinking in the meantime. For the first time in her adult life, she was actually rather thankful that her father is the way he is.

Even the smallest printing plant in this country has a person who reads everything that’s printed there. The bigger plants have numerous such people. Once upon a time, I couldn’t accept this fact despite all the evidence Wingy had shown me. Then, when I was working for the OSU student paper, I wrote an article on Wingy, in general, and this particular theory of hers. Of course, the stoner editors let it slide because they thought it was totally trippy and no one really reads The Mighty Buckeye Times anyway (the paper also published a lengthy diatribe by an OCPer in which he threatened to kill the President {which has to be one of the coolest things the OCP has ever done [I mean, what the fuck, we’re suppose to have freedom of speech in this country, but you can’t even talk about injuring the Commander-in-Chief, what the hell is that? I call it when I see it, and that is bullshit, my friends]} and no one seemed to notice).

However, when I went to pick up the issue with my article at the printing plant, my story had been mysteriously replaced with like ten Peanuts comic strips. The plant’s manager nervously insisted that “this was the way the original was delivered,” while he kept glancing at a mirror as if there was somebody watching him on the other side. I knew he was full of fucking shit since I was the one who dropped off the plates. From that point onward, I was a total believer. Wingy’s always right. I don’t how she does it, but somehow she always manages to figure this shit out.

Apparently, these sneaky bastards are called “readers.” Despite what some of Wingy’s friends might claim, The Man can’t really be everywhere at once. So He has tons of other men working for Him. These assholes usually wear black suits, black sunglasses, and drive black Lincoln Town Cars. The Man’s activities are universally known as “The Business.” And the readers are The Man’s eyes when it comes to the written word. They review everything and report anything that may be unsavory directly to The Man. He then tells them how to handle the situation.

I was actually kinda honored that The Man deemed my article worthy of censorship. It was like my English Professor gave me an “A+” and read my essay aloud to the whole class, but with Peanuts comics instead of the top grade and not letting anyone read my article instead of letting everyone hear it (okay, I admit it, that doesn’t make too much fucking sense, still it felt like I done good, even if no one else knew).

Anyway, my point here (there’s always a point, even if it’s a dull one) is that Wingy never has her books or magazines printed in the United States. She always drives her old VW Bug (the car is Wingy’s one weakness, she knows that Volkswagen built their auto-empire on the backs of concentration camp workers with the help of the nazis, but she just loves the way the Bug looks, so she tries to rationalize it by claiming that the whole hippie Bug obsession is a left-wing inversion of a right-wing symbol like when gays took the word “queer” back from the homophobes or black people took the word “nigger” back from the racists {though, if she has one too many glasses of red wine with dinner, she’ll confess that she really just thinks the car’s “totally bitchin”}) to some obscure Latin American country where nobody notices what you publish, especially if it’s in English. Sure, she could mail it, but she loves to drive, has tons of comrades down South, and trusts the US Postal Service even less than the US printing plants (that’s a whole other story, and if you’re interested in it, you should check out: “Those Mailpeople Weren’t Killed by A Disgruntled Associate, They Were Killed Because They Wouldn’t Read Your Mail!” by W. Obbs in the June 1993 issue of Everyone Really Is Fucking You Over).

And, in case you were curious, I figure the reason that The Man didn’t suppress the OCPer’s article about killing the President is because The Man doesn’t really like the President (he probably fucked His girlfriend or something). Plus, if the President does just happen to get murdered, then The Man already has a Commie suspect. Man, The Man is fucking cunning.

Also, I figure the Secret Service didn’t investigate this alleged crime because, well, who the hell wants to come to fucking Ohio? I bounced these theories off Wingy and she told me she’d look into them. Man, I love that woman. Someone has to fight the good fight and she’s definitely fighting it for all of us.