A: Olivia & Cemal (Alec)
“It came to me this morning,” Cemal (Alec) said, “Namely that in the modern world, what is it exactly that’s distinguished us from the pre-modern?”
“Okay, what is it?” Olivia replied.
“Well, if you’ll let me finish?”
“Of course! Go on.”
“It’s that the modern world, it’s distinguished by this merging of the individual and thought.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, if you’d let me finish the thought - what I mean in particular, Olivia, is that we view ourselves as one with the thought and/or thoughts that enter our, for lack of a better term, minds. We have a thought and we, now inveterately, view this thought as us. Now, for my part, I’ve never particularly felt this way, and I’ve.”
“You’ve always viewed yourself as a bit of a nutjob because of it. No?”
“I mean, I don’t know if I’d say, you know, a fucking nutjob! But I’ve certainly viewed myself as unique because of it. But in a deep sleep, emerging from a deep sleep, sometimes things become apparent to you, and, in my case, it’s become apparent to me that for lack of a better phrase maybe I’m right, that thought is essentially an exterior phenomena in principle. That there are things, or entities, or phenomena, that at the very least are present in thought as thought occurs to us, that continuing down this line of, you know, we think things, of thoughts belong to individuals that they reside in, or pass through, that this approach is fundamentally flawed. That it also essentially, eventually, if you subscribe to this notion, that it will make the notion of God fundamentally absurd. This idea that we own our thoughts, it, more than anything else, has so-called killed God.”
“Well, it’s an interest theory, Alec. You took melatonin again, I’m assuming?”
“Yeah, I got this new Trader Joe’s version of it. I feel like it’s more potent?”
“It’s probably cleaner at least. Where did you get the previous.”
“Walmart,” he finished.
“Oh, well obviously - the melatonin you were previously using was probably, like, 90% high fructose corn syrup or something.”
“It didn’t seem to have a great effect, unless I took like at least five milligrams and shit. Quote-unquote five milligrams I should say.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“In the modern world we’ve subscribed to this notion that we’re, you know, fused to our thought, fused to our organism, yet it’s always struck me as fundamentally absurd! Fused to our nuclear families, fused to this notion of a genetic lineage.”
“You’re against genetic lineages now too, Alec?”
“Maybe,” Cemal (Alec) replied after a beat, “Somewhat! What? Ipso facto you believe you’re descended from your parents and shit?”
“I don’t know, Cemal. Kind of? I guess I never really took much time to question the assumption.”
“And that’s your issue Olivia, you’re over here refusing to question assumptions, over here fuckin like doing everything you can to prevaricate the necessary questioning of all assumptions. These assumptions, the assumptions that underpin our world views and shit. Fuck that.”
“Well, to be fair to me, being pregnant doesn’t exactly help, Alec. Sorry!”
“There’s a small hair,” Cemal (Alec) began, staring down at a pear he took a bite of as Olivia reiterated to him that she was currently pregnant, “on this fucking red pear. Which I guess is also somehow - an Anjou pear?”
“I thought Anjous were green?”
“So did I, Olivia. So did I. I fucking thought Anjous were generally, or actually always and exclusively green, but this particular grocery store in my neighborhood - I love it there - they market the so-called reds - the red pear as actually the Anjou pear.”
“That’s actually unheard of to me.”
“Yet regardless of color, there seems to be a small for lack of a better word hair on it though?”
“On the skin of.”
“No, not the skin. The uh, it’s on the interior?”
“It’s probably.”
“It has to be mine right? My beard hair? Or maybe like a fucking eyelash perhaps? Or some shit.”
“It looks, um, vaguely pubic to me?”
“I’m just gonna, you now, fucking blow it off the pear? Fuck it, right? That makes sense to you?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“It doesn’t, does it?”
“You’re almost done with it anyway. So.”
“I just took my first bite.”
“But pears are small. How many bites in a pear? Eight maybe? You’re more than 10% done with the pear.”
“You know what? Fuck it, you know? Sorry, just let me.”
“Finish chewing? Please do!”
“It’s just kind of funny now that I think about it.”
“What is Cemal?”
“I’ve been so averse to for lack of a better term skin care products of late?”
“Well, to be fair, you have oily skin anyway. That makes it - it can make it somewhat difficult.”
“But it’s purely fuckin because I just - I’ve been avoiding topical ointments of this sort solely because I stumbled on this post online, you know, when I just happened to be using a decent amount of a moisturizer and shit.”
“Right.”
“And the poster,” Alec (Cemal) continued, “He made this completely unsubstantiated claim, this bold assertion that so-called Big Skin Care, that they’re essentially peddling products that actually degrade the skin - of course in order to just sell more skin care products!”
“Was this on Reddit again, Cemal?”
“But it just - I think it struck me as logically sound, as totally cogent in a sense. That I couldn’t outright deny it?”
“People say similar things about doctors and pharmaceuticals and the like.”
“And I really haven’t used any topical creams since. On some level, after reading the post, I came to believe that Big Skin Care - a phrase I had no knowledge prior to perusing the post - that it’s collectively degrading the quality of aggregate skin, even though I personally have absolutely no evidence to back up that claim.”
“But anyway,” Olivia said, “You were going to tell me about.”
“About Ophelia?” Cemal (Alec) finished.
“Like your mom and everything with like your uncle was it?”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d call him that, but yeah.”
“Well, you know what I mean. So what’s the latest?”
“She still, I mean she still wants me to try and pursue politics and shit. But ugh. It’s just like - fuckkkk,” he trailed off.
“You don’t want the responsibility, Cemal?”
“It’s not even that. It’s just the administrative side - it’s like such a fucking drag, you know?”
“No, I get it. It’s like a big burden for sure.”
“Plus with all this simulation legislation.”
“Oh, is that actually going through? The simulation legislation?”
“Apparently, officially recognizing our reality as a simulation. In my opinion it’s obviously fucking crock of shit!”
“I don’t know, I find some of the literature convincing.”
“No, it’s totally off-base conceptually to me, Olivia. You can’t - what? No, it’s the folly of analogy, Olivia. Just because we’ve created a system for ourselves that indulges in various elements of so-called simulation, then we think that ipso facto the entire universe as a whole must follow suit?”
“Well.”
“The only way you could possibly get me to buy into any simulation legislation? - is if we acknowledged that the universe takes shape of whatever we tend to view it as, that’s the only way, as some sort of hypothesis asserting that the act of measurement alters the measurement itself and its corresponding legislation. But actually believing the objective universe is a simulation because we jack off to simulated anal gapes - no, that’s pure folly to me, and the technocrats who get sucked off for postulating it? It’s so idiotic it’s actually almost maddening in my opinion.”
“But really, Alec, if you feel so strongly about it, then why not take your mom’s advice? Couldn’t you do more to fight it from.”
“From the seat of a what? Some sort of galactic administrator? Sure, if I had any interest in actually fighting the battle itself, but just because I feel vociferously that something is idiotic, that doesn’t mean I feel vociferously that it’s my job to counteract it politically, or that I even care if it’s counteracted at all.”
“Okay, but then what are you going to do.”
“Do with what?”
“Your life?”
“You’re presuming that’s my decision.”
“Okay, but presuming just for a moment that it’s possible that it is: What would you lean toward pursuing?”
“Hypothetical extrapolation of absurd presumptions - is that the best use of our time, Olivia?”
“Absurd presumptions seem to be the most fruitful breeding ground for thought, no?”
“Maybe I’ll sell drugs.”
“Oh really?” Olivia replied, her well manicured eyebrows now raised in a quizzical shape, “I mean, if that’s the case, have you ever considered going into investment banking?”
B: Mort & Alec (Cemal)
“But no,” Alec (Cemal) said, sitting across from Mort at a little Mexican hole-in-the-wall spot on a Taco Tuesday, “that’s always been the ultimate end-game, of everything.”
“Of what exactly again?” Mort asked.
“It’s annihilation!” Alec (Cemal) said, “The end-game. You write words, you create things, but there can ultimately, in origin, only be the one thing as end-game, so while the one thing is irreparably in all of its exaggerations, all of its creations and extrapolations, in the end the end-game is always annihilation. It can’t be otherwise, can it? It couldn’t possibly be otherwise, could it? A return, a contraction to the one thing.”
“It’s not, well, exactly the most uplifting thing I’ve heard today, but.”
“But really Mort,” Alec (Cemal) interjecetd, “Think about it for a second. Why isn’t it uplifting? We’re a part of the one thing, right? So what’s so ipso facto bad about returning to it. Is that that bad? Why is that so objectionable exactly? We toss and turn about fucking, you know, the potential annihilation of the things that we love, but what do we really love in actuality?”
“Um.”
“What? Insemination of near strangers? Nintendo Switch Online? Getting fucked up three nights a week? Doing our nails in pretty colors? Yet why shouldn’t everything ultimately be destroyed? People really talk about future generations, like if the planet or the solar system just burst into flames, like that’s some terrible apocalypse and shit, but not to the infinite it’s not!”
“Perhaps that’s a fair point, but.”
“How could the one thing not extend to everything that extends from it Mort?” Alec (Cemal) interjected) “In perpetuity! It’s simply nonsensical to assume otherwise. The infinite is by its very nature what can’t be created or destroyed, that’s what’s infinite, it has to be. It’s what we can’t fucking conceive, it’s what strikes us as absurd when we come across it, when we see a fucking sign of it and shit. It’s what we think about after we jack off, after we bust a fucking nut and shit, Mort. After we come across some cunt or another, then we think back to our origin - in infinity, back in the infinite, where we belong, and then we fucking laugh! People spend their days talking about nuclear families and rain forests and shit.”
“Yeah, I get where you’re going, but.”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Alec (Cemal) interjected, “Those are totally valuable causes! Nuclear families and rain forests? They’re totally worthwhile! But it’s just like at the same time? Fuck everything? The current solar system means absolutely nothing in the face of what’s ultimately infinite. We’re extensions of an infinite being. The fuck do I give a fuck about a solar system if I’m simply an extension of the infinite, you know?”
“No, I mean, on the one hand it totally makes sense.”
“It only comes when its ready, Mort,” Alec (Cemal) interjected, “What are you? Gonna squeeze it out like toothpaste out of a toothpaste tube? Roast it like gyro meat and scrape it off whenever some drunk kid orders a sandwich? Just shave it off a giant kabob and shit. No, that’s not the proper nature of the infinite.”
“Oh, I totally agree.”
“Did we tell this hoe to get us the check already?”
“Um,” Mort pondered, turning back and slyly glancing at the counter, which was unoccupied, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure we did. We told her at least like five, ten minutes ago I’d say?”
“Then where the fuck is she? How many Modelos did I have again?”
“I counted about four, I think?”
“That sounds about right. Let’s see, yeah, I had about five Coronas earlier. And now, yeah, now I feel like I’m possibly about to puke? So that about adds up, I think?”
“Here she is!” Mort said, turning toward the waitress, “Ah, thank you so much honey! Yeah, just give us a second and then come right back for the cards.”
“Let me see?” Alec (Cemal) said peering over Mort’s shoulder.
“At a glance it looks reasonable.”
“What - is that an automatic gratuity they added there? Of fucking - that’s twenty percent in there?”
“Let me see.”
“Yeah. I think there is?”
“That’s a little odd, no?”
“Automatically adding gratuity? For a party of fucking two people, Mort? It’s certainly a bit unorthodox, I think.”
“Well, I guess. What? Leave no tip then? Split the tab but just leave no tip?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. A bit cunty either way, I suppose.”
“So what’s the latest on the deal?” Mort asked, slipping his credit card into the sleeve.
“On the deal you mean?”
“Yeah, on the Idio Eight - with them. Are we? We’re fucking bailing them out, aren’t we?” Mort confirmed the answer from a single glance at Alec (Cemal)’s face. “I knew it!”
“I don’t know if I’d say bailing out. But.”
“But what?”
“But we’re securing funding for them, yeah. Essentially yeah, we’re going to give them, you know, a little cash infusion and shit.”
“Oh, fuck that, Alec! Fuck that to hell!”
“Well, what’re we supposed to do Mort?! What? We should let a fairly major regional bank just fucking fail? Because that would look good for who?”
“I’m just saying, Alec. Like, if Ray wasn’t.”
“Don’t even say it, Mort, because I don’t wanna hear it! While we’re waiting for this little hoe to pick up the credit cards, don’t even say it,” Alec (Cemal) reiterated, slipping his credit card on top of Mort’s within the sleeve, “Don’t even say it. Don’t you dare, Mort, because I know what you’re going to say, Mort. Oh, if Ray wasn’t getting his balls tongued by Michelle would we still be bailing them out then? And the answer is - do you know what the answer is?”
“Thank you hun!” Mort nodded as he slipped the sleeve to the slouching waitress, “Yeah - fifty fifty is fine!”
“Do you want to know? The answer Mort?”
“Actually I would, Alec,” he said, watching his tone until he felt the waitress was officially out of earshot. “So why don’t you tell me.”
“If it wasn’t Ray getting his balls tongued, then it would be somebody else getting their balls tongued, Mort. Or if it wasn’t a pair of balls being tongued, then it would be a pair of pussy lips getting fucked, or a sole butthole getting munched. What are you? Brand new now? It’s always one or the other, it’s always this or that when it comes to bailing out regional banks. There’s always orifice involved to a certain extent.”
“I’m just saying, Alec. At some point, like, it’s fucking taxpayer money isn’t it? Shouldn’t we at some point view it through that prism?”
“Haha! Don’t make me laugh, Mort! Oh, taxpayer money?! That’s what you’re worried about now? The funds the taxpayer pays to the state?”
“Well, at a certain point?”
“At a certain point what? The Q3 black budget of the damn IQA alone is enough to cure domestic homelessness overnight. Yet who gives a shit about that? Even the so-called best and brightest, they don’t give a fucking shit. They’re too busy causing an uproar about some kid who scraped his knee in Indo-Saturn? They’re on some campus lawn right now demanding a band-aid be air-mailed to Indo-Saturn, Mort, and do you want to know why?”
“Oh - please Alec, do tell.”
“Because that’s what gets their collective nuts tongued! There isn’t a single man on this planet who’s got laid because he gave a fuck about a homeless veteran, there’s nothing less sexy than caring about what could easily and logically be cured! It’s supply and demand, man.”
“No, I get it, and I’m not saying it doesn’t make sense on a some level, Alec.”
“Well, either way. The fuck are we gonna do? Even if I agreed with you, it still wouldn’t make a difference - plus, it’s not like it’s taxpayer money technically anyway.”
“Well, if it’s coming from The Fed.”
“The Fed is diluting the taxpayer’s dollar in theory, but they’re not really spending it, they’re just making it worth less - in theory. Sure, but as long as we’re shoving a bayonet up the ass of anyone who refuses to price their oil in anything other than Petrohitlers, then it’s not even technically a linear dilution! I mean, in a strict sense it is - in the sense that, you know, if they didn’t print trillions of Petrohitlers the taxpayer’s dollar would be worth more? Would it? Maybe. Geopolitics is difficult to assess price-wise. But maybe in theory it would be. Yet! - as long as we engage in a sort of ruthless imperialism geopolitically the net effect is basically fucking neutral.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up, Alec.”
“Because you know I’m right!”
“Are we tipping on this?” Mort turned to his slip, pen in hand, “Tipping on the tip?”
“Tipping on top of the twenty percent that was already included?”
“Yes? Or no? It’s like ten bucks either way.”
“Fuck no, man!” Alec (Cemal) said, “I already get raked over the damn coals on taxes. Ten bucks means nothing in theory, in actuality it’s totally meaningless, yet on principle it means something, doesn’t it? It sends a message, no? Now I’m getting double dipped on my bar bills? Plus, the service wasn’t even that good!”
“Oh, so now all of the sudden.”
“Well,” Alec (Cemal) interjected, “When I’m the taxpayer, yeah obviously I give little more of a fuck, Mort!”