In the name of the Reason, and of Observation, and of Experience. My last check-up was three months ago.
Three months, Doktor. Only three months since my last check-up. It was here, with my regular guy. I would have waited to see him, but this is urgent. So three months. How can it have only been three months?
Only three months and... hm? The trouble, Doktor? What seems to be the trouble? It's all been trouble. Fuck, it's been trouble since I got that bloody package from Cram. Cram is from the internet, you see. You know what that means. It means he's a no-goodnik. I didn't know it meant that before, but I know that now. Goddamn, those Discordians. Why are you smiling?
That's more like it. I'm not joking, okay. This is a Serious Matter.
Cram sent me a package, with a new Correct Answer Machine. You may have read in my notes how I was having some trouble with the old one. I experimented with a couple of related models, first, but they were ill fits. This Discordian model said it was compatible with anything, though, so I figured I'd give it a go. It was shaped like an apple, and when I bit into it the old machine dropped off, like it's meant to. But, Doktor, it didn't give me any new answers. I tried to fit a new one immediately and have tried to replace it several times since, but no other Correct Answer Machine will power up.
You have to understand, I've been horribly crippled ever since, by having to think about things for myself. You can't know what it's like, Doktor. I've been awfully confused. I'm thinking all the time now. And noticing things, Doktor. Noticing things I never cared to notice before, like the order in which people use their words, subtle pauses, misdirection and people who I used to believe are lying now, while lunatics are making sense. But, Doktor, I have to tell you what else I've noticed.
Strings. Everyone is on strings. Why are you smiling? Don't smile, I've seen them. Strings on everybody's hands and feet and heads, like they're all puppets. Everything anyone ever does, Doktor. Because of the strings. Sometimes you can't see them at all, but other times, when the light catches them just right, they're all over the place.
I saw the strings on myself, stretching way beyond sight into the sky. Worse still, I felt them tugging. Felt them carry me about my business. How did they know where I was going? They couldn't, so they must be deciding. I couldn't resist their pull, either. When I tensed by arms, they dragged me about by my legs. It was impossible to anticipate their movements. Naturally, I suspected that bastard, Cram. The Discordians must be planting thoughts in my head. Not wanting to let them know I was onto them, I asked only about the Discordian Answer Machine, hoping I might get some clue as to what was going on. Since I last spoke with him, Cram had turned into some sort of Jesus freak. Not really, he was making a point about the Gospel of Thomas, but fat lot of good that did me when he hardly remembered sending me that Goddess-damned package.
Fuck it, you know? If you want something done right...
First thought was to cut my strings, but I got this terrible mental image of my simply dropping dead if I did that, so I left it alone.
You know what I did, Doktor? I climbed them. Climbed up my own strings. To begin with, it was hard work, but it got easier. I started to feel almost as if my ascent was being assisted by the strings being drawn upwards.
"Oh, I can't wait to see the look on the puppet-master's face when I get up there and show him what I think of him," I'm thinking, "I'll make a fist and show him how we play puppets where I come from."
Imagine my surprise when I reached the end of the line and there was no great controller pulling the strings. Imagine it.
What do you suppose I found instead? I'll tell you, Doktor. Maybe you can help me work it out.
More string. When you get up high enough, everyone's strings just sort of meet and are tangled together, with this great mess of connections jerking about and being jerked and everybody is controlling everybody else.
My hand lifts to bring my coffee to my mouth, follow the strings, some kid kicks a ball into a goal, halfway across town. Only that doesn't make sense, so I think there must be more to it than that.
I'll tell you what, though, Doktor. Every since finding out where my strings go, I've been becoming a lot more comfortable with this "thinking for myself" thing. I can't cut them entirely, oh no, but if I know how I react to each string being pulled, and which other strings those are reacting to, I can resist, I can climb back up and untangle the parts that cause me to behave in ways which aren't working for me.
Doktor, do you understand? I thought my trouble was thinking for myself, but it wasn't. I wasn't. Not until I knew why I thought the way I thought, and how to change my mind. How to take the strings and rearrange them. It's not good to entirely untangle them, because it's useful to sometimes react the way they make me react... but its not so much of a mess now.
Doktor? You do understand, don't you? But I can see that you do not, or you think me mad.
I wish you wouldn't smile at me so.
You just keep smiling.
I guess I'll come back when the regular doctor is in.
:mittens: that was great!
but didn't you write this before? I really seem to remember some story about Cram sending someone a Discordian Answering Machine, though I'm not sure if it had the bits with string in it too.
That's awesome...
Quote from: Bert Huttz on August 02, 2011, 10:26:20 AM
Fuck it, you know? If you want something done right...
First thought was to cut my strings, but I got this terrible mental image of my simply dropping dead if I did that, so I left it alone.
Wouldn't have worked anyway--fuckers are made of adamantine.
Quote
You know what I did, Doktor? I climbed them. Climbed up my own strings. To begin with, it was hard work, but it got easier. I started to feel almost as if my ascent was being assisted by the strings being drawn upwards.
"Oh, I can't wait to see the look on the puppet-master's face when I get up there and show him what I think of him," I'm thinking, "I'll make a fist and show him how we play puppets where I come from."
Imagine my surprise when I reached the end of the line and there was no great controller pulling the strings. Imagine it.
What do you suppose I found instead? I'll tell you, Doktor. Maybe you can help me work it out.
Dude, you're
climbing? You're making this harder on yr self than it has to be. Look: have you looked in a mirror yet? Wait, wait, wait! Look at your HANDS.
lol.
See that balled up wad of stuff you've been wringing over and over in your hands like a mechanical, pre-programmed bad habit?
My advice? Enjoy your coffee.
That's it. Oh and...don't dink
too much of it all at once. That could getcha tossed into a place where you
really start seein' a lot of string. Ask the Good Dok about the Mamby Jambies sometime, won'tcha?
There really
isn't any more to it than that.
Have a RAINBOW DAY!
Dear Mr Huttz,
I've reviewed your file, in the time since your hasty departure, and I think I can offer 3 possible courses of treatment.
The first is that you continue to think for yourself. This is the hardest option, but requires less surgery and/or medications. We call it "self management", which is like "pain management", but less insulting to the patient. Should you decide on this course of treatment, I'd recommend that you take a few therapy sessions in which you will be required to make decisions.
The second is that you watch at least 5 hours of television per day, and perhaps 2 hours of AM talk radio. The subject matter is unimportant, of course...The idea is that you take the decisions given to you and use them to prop up your apparently damaged world view.
The last option is surgery. We have plenty of perfectly good brains all jarred up and waiting to be put in your skull. If you refuse to - or are unable to - use the brain you have, we'll give Richard Feynmann or Richard Nixon have a shot. You'll be right as rain in hours, with our patented Zip Lock™ surgery techniques.
Attached is my bill. The terms are net 30, and on day 31, I have Mr Chop & Mister Scratch come by and extract payment.
Yours,
Doktor Howl
Quote from: Triple Zero on August 02, 2011, 10:44:50 AM
:mittens: that was great!
but didn't you write this before? I really seem to remember some story about Cram sending someone a Discordian Answering Machine, though I'm not sure if it had the bits with string in it too.
This was a follow-up to the one addressed to Cram. (http://www.principiadiscordia.com/forum/index.php?topic=28088.0) :)
Very nice! :mittens:
Quote from: Bert Huttz on August 02, 2011, 08:06:08 PM
Quote from: Triple Zero on August 02, 2011, 10:44:50 AM
:mittens: that was great!
but didn't you write this before? I really seem to remember some story about Cram sending someone a Discordian Answering Machine, though I'm not sure if it had the bits with string in it too.
This was a follow-up to the one addressed to Cram. (http://www.principiadiscordia.com/forum/index.php?topic=28088.0) :)
Ah good thank for linking, I was beginning to doubt my sanity :)
:mittens:
I guess I should have just posted mittens.
Quote from: Doktor Howl on August 02, 2011, 02:24:40 PM
Dear Mr Huttz,
I've reviewed your file, in the time since your hasty departure, and I think I can offer 3 possible courses of treatment.
The first is that you continue to think for yourself. This is the hardest option, but requires less surgery and/or medications. We call it "self management", which is like "pain management", but less insulting to the patient. Should you decide on this course of treatment, I'd recommend that you take a few therapy sessions in which you will be required to make decisions.
The second is that you watch at least 5 hours of television per day, and perhaps 2 hours of AM talk radio. The subject matter is unimportant, of course...The idea is that you take the decisions given to you and use them to prop up your apparently damaged world view.
The last option is surgery. We have plenty of perfectly good brains all jarred up and waiting to be put in your skull. If you refuse to - or are unable to - use the brain you have, we'll give Richard Feynmann or Richard Nixon have a shot. You'll be right as rain in hours, with our patented Zip Lock™ surgery techniques.
Attached is my bill. The terms are net 30, and on day 31, I have Mr Chop & Mister Scratch come by and extract payment.
Yours,
Doktor Howl
:lulz: :lulz: :lulz:
Quote from: Doktor Howl on August 02, 2011, 09:11:33 PM
I guess I should have just posted mittens.
Heh, my mittens was to the exchange, I planned on writing a reply like yours, but you got to it first, and I was pressed for time at the moment.
But rest assured, a reply from the office of Doktor Phox is forthcoming.
Quote from: Doktor Howl on August 02, 2011, 09:11:33 PM
I guess I should have just posted mittens.
A reply is on its way, got delayed by the board crash yesterday.
Quote from: Bert Huttz on August 03, 2011, 08:06:42 PM
Quote from: Doktor Howl on August 02, 2011, 09:11:33 PM
I guess I should have just posted mittens.
A reply is on its way, got delayed by the board crash yesterday.
Ah.
Quote from: Doktor Howl on August 02, 2011, 02:24:40 PM
Dear Mr Huttz,
I've reviewed your file, in the time since your hasty departure, and I think I can offer 3 possible courses of treatment.
The first is that you continue to think for yourself. This is the hardest option, but requires less surgery and/or medications. We call it "self management", which is like "pain management", but less insulting to the patient. Should you decide on this course of treatment, I'd recommend that you take a few therapy sessions in which you will be required to make decisions.
The second is that you watch at least 5 hours of television per day, and perhaps 2 hours of AM talk radio. The subject matter is unimportant, of course...The idea is that you take the decisions given to you and use them to prop up your apparently damaged world view.
The last option is surgery. We have plenty of perfectly good brains all jarred up and waiting to be put in your skull. If you refuse to - or are unable to - use the brain you have, we'll give Richard Feynmann or Richard Nixon have a shot. You'll be right as rain in hours, with our patented Zip Lock™ surgery techniques.
Attached is my bill. The terms are net 30, and on day 31, I have Mr Chop & Mister Scratch come by and extract payment.
Yours,
Doktor Howl
I didn't expect to see you again, Doktor. You don't seem so suprised to see me, though.
I feel as if I should ask what you're doing here, but I suspect that given this is your house, I am obliged to answer you the same. You're smiling again. That smile would have me believe you already know how I came to be here and a great deal beyond that.
I will explain anyway. Perhaps it is more for my own understanding than for yours. I've been back up the beanstalk, if you don't mind the metaphor. I did as you suggested as far as continuing to think about things for myself. Tried to watch the television until it all went away, but I couldn't make it work. The sound was out of sync, or something similar. Every time the news man spoke, someone asked "Do you believe that?" over the top of him. I sought assistance from my regular doctor with the decision making, though I must admit he wasn't particularly helpful.
Doctor, doctor, I feel as if I'm a pair of curtains.
You're a menace and a dangerous pervert.
No, no. That's not how it goes. He didn't understand. It was all medication and sedation with him. Thinking for yourself is treatable, if you're dedicated to getting better. Fuck that weasel, I'm never seeing him again. Don't get me wrong, I understand why he reacted the way he did. I've seen where his strings go. He believed he was helping me, but that just makes it all the worse, doesn't it?
Your smile is making me nervous. You don't mind if I sit, do you?
Where was I? The strings. I followed them again, further this time. Deeper into the tangled mess. I wanted to find out what I was attached to. Who I was attached to. Dok, it's not just a tangled mess in there. There's an old-school switch-board, but the operator is on holiday. It's colour-coded. At least, I think it's meant to be. It appeals to my sense of order that they should be. The strings split out at the top, you see, and they're all full of thin wires. Different coloured wires, with different coloured holes to plug them into, but the oranges are plugged into yellows and the greens into blues. The signals are similar, y'know? They're usable. They're just not right. I've been experimenting with where my wires go, rearranging them, tidying the place up a bit.
Should I do this for the others, Doktor? I had a look around. It appears to me that most of what's wrong with everything is a result of these wires being all mixed up. My immediate feeling is that I shouldn't touch them, but I found the combination of wires which makes me feel this way, too. Suppose I just showed them where the wires are, so they can rearrange them for themselves?
It's really too big of a thing to just leave it alone. What if I fixed everybody? Do you think they would thank me?
Anyway, I suppose you're wondering why I visited. I didn't mean to find you specifically. I found a board up there which was tidier than many of the others and I wanted to see who was attached to it... and try to determine whether they were sorted by chance or by choice.
That smile again, Doktor? Oh, don't laugh at me.
I suppose I'll let myself out.
You don't need a Doktor, you need a Holy Man™.
The reason your wires are all tangled up is that you are trying to apply good common sense to a world which has spent the last 60 years going insane at an accelerating rate. There is no cure for this, no PILLZ HERE, no cheap and drastic elective surgeries, no matter what the Kardashians say.
No, your wiring is just fine. It's the rest of the world that's all fucked up. You are having rational responses to irrational stimuli. Just who needs to be fixed, here? You, or the fucked up excuse for a world that our parents and grandparents built for us?
"Sane", in one meaning, means "within societal norms". Given that description, do you really WANT to be sane?