Um hello? I heard a voice speak gently. I said, Uhhhh hello? literally almost fucking shitting my pants. This super white guy, even whiter than Paul. Who’s like the whitest dude I’ve ever met. Slowly crept into my master bedroom wearing all white. Literally radiating in all fucking white. I said, Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my domicile. If I may ask? He said, Hey. Um, I’m. Well in your language I think my name would loosely translate to, umm. Kurt Thomas? I said, Wait. What do you mean, my language? Because you speak, like, perfect English. Is this like a racial thing, or. He said, Oh no. No, not at all! No. I mean it is racial, in a. I said, Oh. So you’re racist? And trespassing? A trespassing racist? Fuck you! He said, No. Please! Don’t call 911. Not yet. Because I mean like racial as in like the human race. I’m actually truly color-blind! I said, How many black friends do you have? He said, I’m not even from this planet! But I have a few. Maybe five to seven? Because I’m (he scratched his left pec and winced slightly). Well in your language I suppose you would call me a quote-unquote extra-terrestrial. Or perhaps an interdimensional entity? Something like that. Although I find both terms a bit offensive. If I’m being honest. If I’m allowed to be offended here. I said, Sorry I don’t believe in aliens. He said, Yeah. Alien. Hmm. That’s actually like our N-word. Just FYI. I said, Well you look like some regular old ass white dude to me. He said, Frankly. A lot of my race does resemble that. We look quite like the median human. Well, I mean, maybe not you. But uh. I said, Wow. He said, Well. You know what I mean? I said, Oh, I know! He said. Yeah. I mean I guess technically we’re Caucasian aliens? If we’re getting into the weeds here. I said, Honestly Kurt. You’re fucking lucky I’m feeling suicidal. It is Kurt. Isn’t it? He said, Correct! And well. That’s part of the reason I’m here.
Kurt Thomas, who was, as far as I could tell apparently some kind of extremely Caucasian extraterrestrial entity who’d broken into my penthouse apartment for yet to be disclosed reasons, said, Come with me. I said, Ok, but where? And I have to shower. I just fucking woke up. My butthole. He said, You already have. I said, How the fuck did you do that? Wait. My asshole is clean and I’m wearing a full suit?!
The two of us sat in the back row of an unfamiliar conference room, where Paul was standing at the podium about to make a speech. His wife was sitting in the front row, making me want to shit my pants, which, honestly, even if I had, Kurt could have probably magically fixed anyway. I had no idea what the fuck was going on. Paul said, All Western science is sprung from this singular notion, that perspective and observation should be for lack of a better term deified. Yet we should ruminate for a time on the implications of both concepts: perspective and observation. In each instance an implication of an exterior other emerges. It’s for this reason the mentally different have no true category in our society. We’ve achieved a state of existence in the West where perspective and observation have become unquestionable facts, where any questioning of perspective and examination must now lie outside of existence itself, as we understand it at least. The mentally different, recognizing the flaw in this fundamental axiom, that there is no perspective and there is no observation, at least in the sense we mean it, for this reason can have no place in our social milieu. They’re accounted for in no minor or major identitarian box. They’re shunned from society and essentially have no choice but to spiral into insanity, but not in our sense of the word.
No, for the mentally different it’s an entirely separate form of insanity that’s endured. It’s impossible for us to identify this insanity. It always escapes our categories. Those who question this notion that observation leads in a linear fashion to truths which lead in a linear fashion to the refinement of perspective which leads in a linear fashion to progress, by definition these people must be excluded. I leaned over and whispered to Kurt, What the fuck? I thought Paul was like a stock broker or something? What business does he have talking about retarded people? Kurt said, Just keep listening. I said, Is this the ADL? He said, Are you pro-Israel? I thought I saw Paul’s wife look back quickly in our direction but before I could avoid eye contact the two of us were suddenly transported back to my penthouse apartment.
Paul said, Honey, I’m home! walking in the door of my penthouse with his tie just moderately loosened. I said, Oh wonderful! You’re just in time! I’m broiling us two fucking huge 24 oz. ribeye steaks. Premium cuts! They were 15% off at Dave’s! He said, Oh God. That makes me wanna cum! I said, Paul, oh my Gosh! You never say naughty words like that! What the frig has gotten into you? He said, I don’t know. I’ve felt . . . I can’t explain it. Just a little different all day. Like I’ve finally achieved a material sense of clarity with regard to something that’s typically been clouded in ambiguity.
I said, Honestly I can kind of a weird day too. He said, We have so much in common babe. I said, God, I’m in such a mood for these ribeyes. He said, This is our last night before The Series That Shall Not Be Named starts, huh? I said, Ugh. I don’t even wanna think about it. Paul said, What was that? I said, What do you mean? Paul said, Did you whisper something? I said, I don’t think so? He said, Oh I thought you said. I don’t know. Something about Latrell and Allan scoring 19 points each. What a coincidence that Latrell and Allan both scored 19? I said, Hmm. That’s weird. I didn’t say anything. Definitely not about Latrell. He said, Not that I wanted to bring that up! I just could have sworn . . . I said, Plus we don’t even play tonight. And I know Allan had 32 in Game 6. I’m pretty sure he did. I mean I could check the box score again. If we still have the. Where the fuck is that paper anyway? Did Mariana throw it out? Because I told her. Paul said, Weird. Oh well! Maybe I’m going literally insane. Haha! Check on those ribeyes will you? While I change into something more comfortable?
I opened the oven, partially wanting to stick my head inside until I charcoaled my cranium to a crisp, Sylvia Plath style. But I was delightfully reassured when the ribeyes looked on the beautiful precipice of a succulent medium rare. Raising my head from the oven I saw that Kurt Thomas now stood on the other side of the counter, radiating in an almost fluorescent white. So much so I could barely distinguish his Caucasian-ass facial features. I angrily whispered, What are you doing here?! And what are you? Crooning some shit about Latrell and Allan to Paul? What the fuck is wrong with you? Kurt said, They’ll both score 19 points tomorrow. And your team will lose by twelve. Invest your money wisely. Tim Duncan will be the greatest center of your generation! Haha! Then he-poof! disa-fucking-ppeared.
What did you say about Tim Duncan, honey? Paul said as he ambled back into the kitchen wearing his Federal Reserve logo onesie pajamas. I said, Oh. I was just talking to myself honey. Going over some strategies I might suggest to Jeff to help slow him down tomorrow. Paul said, Oh, ok. I thought I heard you laughing. I said, No, I mean. I just feel like we should use Dudley to rough him up in the, uh, first half. You know, have Chris use a few hard fouls on him. Knock some sense into the kid. Haha. And also that way we can save Marcus for the stretch, you know? Paul said, You’re so thoughtful, Patrick. I just want to eat you up! I said, Ribeyes are done!
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