Superluminal Essay Suite 20

[The following text was published in Volume 4 of The Essays & Lectures of Bryan Ray. It is also available as an audio album.]

The Sentient Peanut

Hello, I’m the famous author Bryan Ray, and I’m back in full effect to rock your world and smash all your paradigms down to dust, by telling you about this crazy-insane new thing that I just discovered: a sentient peanut.

Yes, this peanut is able to feel pleasure and pain. Listen close: do you hear? The peanut is howling in agony. Go ahead and crack open its shell — now bash it with your fist. Do you hear that? The peanut is screaming, and its voice is saying “Stop hurting me.” So let’s have some compassion and hold back for a moment. Observe how the peanut is trembling: it’s visibly terrified. The thing is so shaken up: look, it’s now vomiting blood. You shouldn’t have struck him so hard; I only wanted you to pinch him to crack his shell — you went too far, and that’s what jangled his nerves so bad.

Drats, now our neighbor is at the door. I’ll answer it.

“What’s going on in there?” says our neighbor. “I keep hearing screams of agony, and a voice saying ‘Ow, ow, ow!’ Are you guys funded by U.S. tax dollars?”

“No,” I answer and begin to fabricate a plausible tale to quell our neighbor’s curiosity. Meanwhile, you remain in the adjacent room with the sentient peanut; your hand is pressed firmly upon it, to mute its cries. You now lean down and whisper to the poor thing: “Either shut up, or I will eat you.” But the peanut won’t stop bellowing, so you pop it into your mouth and chew thoroughly and swallow. — Now, muffled screams from your stomach pervade the atmosphere for the remainder of this week’s episode.

Flesh Pot

Here is a vast pot made of metal. Look inside: there are steaming hot pieces of flesh, packed in tight. Body parts of all kinds — lips smacking, hands clutching and caressing. Arms, legs, torsos, necks, thighs, backs. All alive and quite well.

All My Pals Hate My Girlfriend

My girlfriend is pretty as a plum, and she’s fun to be around. I adore her with my heart and soul; but, for some reason, all my pals hate her. When I ask my pals what they have against Jenna (that’s my girlfriend’s name), they say “She inherited a fortune from her deceased relatives, so she doesn’t understand the value of money. This annoys us. Therefore our opinion is that she is bad for you.”

Now I’m confused and trying to figure out how to respond. I want to honor my pals’ advice, but I love Jenna so much that I would forgive any imperfection in her, whether of attribute or action. So I end up just kicking the can down the road and neglecting to decide whether or not to break things off.

Now my pals all throw a birthday party — it is a communal celebration, because they all share the same date of birth — but I notice that I did not receive an invitation. So I call up my pals on the party line:

“Pals,” I say, “how come you won’t let me join the festivities, on this very special day?”

“It is because your girlfriend drives a motorcycle that she bought at Harley-Davidson Dot Com, whereas we only like sport bikes made by Yamaha, Suzuki, or Kawasaki,” answer my pals. “However, we do agree that Jenna is a ten out of ten, on the beauty scale,” they add, giggling.

Now, when my pals say this, about my girlfriend being a “ten,” I am not sure whether they intend that number to be the best or the worst; for there are many ranking systems that hold number one to be the top position.

So I decide to show up at my pals’ communal birthday party anyway, despite not being officially invited; and I bring my girlfriend Jenna right along with me. We approach the scene and notice that my pals are having a picnic — this is exactly what Jenna anticipated, which is why she shrewdly stuffed her handbag with liverwurst. Now a couple of my pals approach me, while Jenna is mingling with the group, and they speak in low voices and address me like so:

“Your girl is obviously drunk; she is acting like a dipstick. Plus her voice is annoying, and she pronounces her words all wrong (what’s up with that fake accent? she makes ‘bling-bling’ sound like ‘boing-boing’). Look, now she just pretended that her swim-top accidentally fell off, and nobody’s even bothering to ogle her. Plus she’s wearing too much Musky Tusk perfume; we can smell it from all the way over here.”

This carping speech of my pals really hurts my feelings. But, after all, my love for my girlfriend outweighs my shame, and I succumb to the urge to make our bond eternal: So Jenna and I leave the party and go get married at the chapel in the Mall of America.

The Indestructible Bean Bag

While I am driving down I-494 from Maple Grove to Fort Snelling, I see a sign that says “Come Visit Chris Heino’s House of Wonders — Next Exit”; so I just have to stop, because Chris Heino is the name of one of my old friends from public school.

After spending a long time browsing around Chris Heino’s House of Wonders, one particular wonder that I find under the other wonders catches my interest: The item is at once more fascinating and more exasperating than anything I’ve ever seen — it is marketed as a “Non-Annihilatable Bean-Bag Chair.”

Noticing that I am intrigued, one of the saleswomen approaches me and delivers the following speech:

“What the display claims is true: the bean bag is indestructible. Watch this: you can shoot it with diamond bullets, and it maintains its integrity. You can even use a hedge trimmer to tear up the stitches at its seams, and it doesn’t spill rice. (It’s filled with rice — that’s what makes it so comfortable.) You can sit on it, and just keep sitting on it and sitting on it, and it will never break. Not only is it non-annihilatable, it’s also mal-adjustable. Plus it qualifies as a low-calorie snack; so it’ll help to tone your physique. Oh, and if you’re the type of guy who gets in fights all the time, and you need an escape bubble, then just press this button on the side, and it solves the problem. Do you understand what you’re beholding here? It’s the beanbag that cannot be destroyed — it’s literally invincible; and I can’t overemphasize the fact that you can still sit on it. Also, don’t forget, whenever you’re in a dangerous situation that seems to guarantee violent death — say, there’s a buffalo stampede at a political rally — simply press that big button that I showed you: it blows out bubbles.”

When the clerk’s hard-sell comes to an end, I can’t resist the temptation to make a purchase. I toss the item into my vehicle’s trunk and continue on to my destination (I’m just running an errand for a strange woman I met at the park); after which, I return back to my house in the suburbs and place the indestructible bean-bag chair in the corner of my front room.

Later that evening, I find myself caught in a gun war. Bullets are riddling the face of my house, shattering the window glass; pictures are dropping from the walls, and knick-knacks are falling off the shelves. So I get down close to the ground and scramble around on the floor for a while, trying to remain alive. Then suddenly I recall that, earlier in the day, I had positioned in the corner of my room the non-annihilatable bean-bag chair! So I crawl over to it, open the zipper, and slither inside; for I know that this is the best place to stow myself at the moment, being that the bean bag is made from an impenetrable material that is hard as rock. — “Bring it on, you suckers!” I shout from within my protective envelope. The enemies start shooting my bean-bag chair; yet, after a while, they grow frustrated, because whatever type of ammo or means of attack that they are using has no effect. My bean-bag chair is truly indestructible. The foemen now try to kick it and beat it with a truncheon; they try to light it on fire and even chop it up with an ax, but to no avail. They are out of their league. So they now start cussing and swearing and threatening and insulting me, until their voices grow hoarse and give out. Finally they leave.

In conclusion, I’m glad that I prepared for this event by becoming the owner of a plush turquoise indestructible bean-bag chair, sold only at Chris Heino’s House of Wonders, located on interstate highway 494 between Maple Grove and Fort Snelling.

Leech Phallus

“How’s it hangin’, Bry?” says the actor whom I hired to help me begin this essay.

“Neither to the right nor left,” I answer, according to the script, “but rather black, slimy, and sucking your neck. For I have a leech phallus, which happens to be the title and subject of this closet drama that you and I are performing.”

Now my co-star feigns surprise and asks: “A leech phallus? What’s that — some sort of strap-on device?”

“No,” I say, and, to prove this, I whisper: “see for yourself: go ahead and pull it.” Then, when the actor playing the supporting role accepts my invitation, I wince and shout: “Ow!” (This moment is comical and prompts the audience to laugh.) To explain my predicament, I then confess as follows in the essay’s most famous soliloquy:

“I’m embarrassed to undress at the gymnasium when I shower after my workout, because, in lieu of a male organ below the belt of my otherwise normal human anatomy, I have this wiggly black appendage. And it’s an awful responsibility, since I must keep the leech phallus moist or it will expire; indeed, it would shrivel and dry up, and I would have one less body part.”

Now, the business located across the street from where my co-actor and I have been pretending to converse is called The Geek Palace. It’s a place where they sell computer chips that look like nachos. At this point, one of the Palace’s courtiers exits the building and begins to walk in our direction: When this courtier passes before me, my leech phallus attaches itself to the person’s left buttock. This happens against my wishes and without my permission — the appendage possesses a will of its own. The thing keeps sucking until it grows obscenely bloated. Now look: while still connected, my leech phallus engages in the ceremony of egg-spawning. The courtier cries out: “Ew, nasty, gross, yuck: make it stop!” And I desperately try to yank the leech phallus away, but its grip is tenacious. However, during the struggle, the basket of computer chips that the courtier is holding gets overturned, and its contents spill out: Thus, nacho-salt douses the exterior of my leech phallus, causing it to writhe in pain and shrink and choke and die. Then it falls off and scatters into the wind like ash from a cigarette.

“Thank you so much,” I shake the courtier’s hand; “now the day is saved.” And the final shot reveals that I now have a flat smooth blank between my legs, just like a real doll.

Legalize Crack

I found out that the substance known as crack is defined as “a free base form of the stimulant cocaine that can be smoked.” Now here’s what I conclude. Tho everyone keeps pouting about the unfair illegalization of marijuana (which is defined as “a dried preparation of the flowering tops of the cannabis plant”), I say: Forget marijuana; we should legalize crack. Here are my reasons:

There is nothing wrong with crack. Crack is a blast. Private companies can mass-produce crack, and then the government can regulate it. Just think of all the benefits. There’d be job opportunities, when crack parlors open up all over our natural habitat. Plus, everybody’s going to make a ton of cash. As I said above, this will benefit the state most of all, because it’ll be able to shovel in that tax money. (You have to admit, “Crack Tax” has a nice ring to it.) For, any time that anybody purchases a vial of crack cocaine, a geyser of revenue will be generated. Every day will be like Black Friday and Cyber Monday fused into one. Crack is also good for the cardiovascular system. And if we make it a legal substance, then we will eliminate all the drug dealers that dwell in our public parks. Thus, the police will finally be able to relax.

Is anybody listening? I’m offering our society a solution to all of its problems. Just legalize crack for me and my business associates, and all the elements of commerce that have fallen apart will build themselves back better. The main obstacle to get over is the sadly misinformed populace: People need to learn the truth about crack. Most folks think that it is evil, but it’s not really all that bad. Consider the following: It makes you feel good. It muffles your pain. It heals all your mangled limbs. And I’ll say it again: it’s a big moneymaker. Also it really, really helps astronomy.

So, heed my advice, instead of ignoring it: Legalize crack in the USA. (Can a country truly be brave and free without crack cocaine?) The Science has spoken: It gives you the power to turn your sled, when you’re in the Downhill Olympics. Crack also fits inside any type of luggage or carry-on bag, so you can bring it with you when traveling. And it doesn’t even matter what color of hair or eyes you seem to have.

The Tiny Misshapen Being

Now I will tell you about the Tiny Misshapen Being.

The Tiny Misshapen Being wears wicker-weave sandals and climbs through the hole in your jeans to fight the parasites. It uses a toothpick spork for a trident; and, when it’s finished with its daily duties, it rides around on the tongue of your shoe.

“Come on,” says the Tiny Misshapen Being, “let’s battle the insects.” And it fights the bugs so furiously that it almost looks like it’s making love to them.

Now the Tiny Misshapen Being is currently fighting a giant crab that crawled out of the suit of the nearest superhero. Next, some rats from New York City arrive and deposit their droppings all over the midground. This spells disaster for someone operating on a microscopic level. Finally, the Tiny Misshapen Being shouts: “Help! I am stuck on a piece of gum!”

The Happy Homebody

I like to stay home. All I eat are raw yams. My house is my castle, and I live like a king: nobody can tell me what to do. I walk around naked and stop and gawk at myself in the mirror. And I need not ever remove my shoes. Neither do I have to brush my teeth nor bathe regularly. I cut my own hair; and, when I do wash, I use sand, because water affrights me. I never vacuum, and I never answer my telephone. I leave the TV on constantly with its volume at full blast, playing old cartoons. All I do is read. Yes, I’m happy at home.

The Land of the Scientists

Better to take pleasure in a rose than to put its root under a microscope.

—from “The Truth of Masks”
by Oscar Wilde

Now I’m lost in the Land of the Scientists. Can you hear this message that I’m broadcasting thru my walkie-talkie? I’m stepping out of my spaceship, which resembles a giant beaker. (The ship is filled with exotic entities that I’ve collected during my intergalactic travels.)

I’ve never seen a realm as desolate as this one: Everyone here wears white smocks and big thick black glasses. Each inhabitant remains incessantly scribbling on his own chalkboard, teaching lessons in physics to a class without attendees. All are preoccupied with calculating incredible sums. There are digits everywhere, and exponents in superscript. Spanning across the entry gate of this Land of the Scientists is their motto:

Forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,

Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead!

Convoluted tables and charts riddle the atmosphere, along with the carcasses of mice, monkeys, and frogs. We see a jar full of hearts next to some Bunsen burners and protective goggles. Diagrams and scale models are omnipresent, as are flagons of toxic chemicals; and, everywhere one turns, one sees portraits of Aristotle. — Each citizen wears a label on his lab coat (all are men here, especially the women) which proclaims his scientific specialty: We find Meteorologists, Nuclear Physicists, an abundance of Urologists, also Chemists, Botanists and Geologists. There’s even a shantytown for Psychologists.

“We follow the light of scientifical truth,” says one of the natives during an interview, when we ask the inhabitants to explain to us the culture and purpose of the Land of the Scientists. “We formulate a hypothesis,” the same native continues, “and then we test it on you. If you fall over and die or develop a rash, we take that into account by noting it down on a sheet of graph paper.”

Veritably, in the Land of the Scientists, reason is God. Everyone speaks in monotone, and nobody sings.

Ravenous Demon-Santa

“I heard you got in a car crash and tragically died.”

“Well, not quite — it’s true that I was in a severe accident, but I survived.”

“Ooh, then you must have had a near-death experience! Tell me, what was it like? did you get to gaze into the light at the end of the tunnel?”

“Um, no, I didn’t. But I did have a terrible vision — I’m not sure if it was a dream or an actual taste of the spiritual world . . .”

“Let’s hear what happened!”

“Well, there was a fountain of fire, and evil was everywhere: I could feel it in my soul, which was in torturous agony. There was mass suffering, nonstop punishment, and blood dripping like rain from the sky . . .”

“Did you meet any supernatural beings?”

“Yes — listen: I was just getting to that. I met a little red Santa, and he was ravenous. He tried to bite my hand, but I pulled it back. Then he stared into my eyes while breathing hard, and he said: ‘Look at me, you liar. I’m pure wickedness, because your father the Devil created me in his workshop. But he refused to fill my stomach with sweets, as my toy soul requested. Instead, he stuffed me full of packing-peanuts, all of which he cursed with the gift of sentience: so now my distended belly will not stop shrieking in greed. To allay my hunger, I acquired a flesh pot, but somebody stole it. Now I’m famished — Oh, what I’d do for a pasta dish topped with meat sauce! — but down here in Hades, there’s no food (except for those stiff protein bars that taste like money). I’m so starved, I could devour all the plastic that’s been dumped in the oceans. But, in truth, I’d prefer a bag of kosher frankfurters . . . maybe some Thanksgiving chili . . . and a side of fish-pork to eat with my pitchfork . . .’ —At this point of the tirade, I regained consciousness in reality: I found myself strapped down to a hospital bed, and the little red Santa of my vision turned out to be a Catholic priest.”