To tell you the truth I’d have thought it had gone out of use long ago;
there is something so 19th-century about it,
with its absurd reverse Puritanism.
Can withdrawal from reality or interpersonal commitment be gauged
by uneasiness at being summoned to a small closed room to discuss
ambiguously sexual material with a total stranger?
Alone in the presence of the grave examiner, it soon becomes clear
that, short of strangling yourself, you are going to have to find a way
of suppressing the snickers of an eight-year-old sex fiend, and feign cu-
riosity about the process to mask your indignation at being placed in
Sure, you see lots of pretty butterflies with the faces of ancient Egypt-
ian queens, and so forth—you see other things, too.
Flying stingray vaginas all over the place, along with a few of their
male counterparts transparently camouflaged as who knows what pil-
lars and swords out of the old brain’s unconscious.
You keep finding yourself thinking, “God damn it, don’t tell me that
isn’t a pussy!”
But after long silence come out with, “Oh, this must be Christ trying
to prevent a large crowd from stoning a woman to death.”
The thing to do is keep a straight face, which is hard. After all, you’re
supposed to be crazy
(and are probably proving it).
Maybe a nudge and a chuckle or two wouldn’t hurt your case. Yes,
it’s some little card game you’ve gotten yourself into this time, when
your only chance is to lose. Fold,
and they have got you by the balls—
just like the ones you neglected to identify.