April 4, 2002
A Little Bit on Jacquess
Until now, few people have been allowed a glimpse into the inner
sanctum of my motivating desires. Those very desires which prompt
me to pursue, moment after moment, this futile activity that is
What is it that drives me? Well, like many people, I found my outlet.
A hobby which I, one day, hope to transform into my profession.
That is, my attempt to get assaulted by as many Nobel laureates
The challenge, at first, was in that I limited myself to rudimentary
verbal and physical provocation. I cannot (I realized) launch any
manner of unauthorized offensive upon the candidate. There were
very specific limitations upon the forms of provocation as well.
Nevertheless, I realized that this would merely be prompting an
assault in one form or another. Eventually, I concluded that the
assault must be as unwarranted as possible for me to consider it
I remember a run-in I had a few years back with Wole Soyinka, the
Nobel prize winning African writer. He was giving a speech about
human rights in Africa, and I realized that this would be the perfect
opportunity to add a notable notch to my belt, so to speak.
Unfortunately, surrounding himself with adoring fans, an unintentional
buffer zone arose between him and myself, drowning out my attempts
to get nearer him and (unfortunately) shielding me from any possible
offensive. I didnt have a book of his (to get autographed)
with me either, so I would have felt too embarrassed using this
as an excuse to get closer to him and within range,
so to speak.
I waited by the doorway for a while until Wole had slipped through
the circle of his admirers, ready to retreat for the night. Moving
in my direction, he steadily passed the doorway I waited beside,
paused for a moment, hurled his right arm sideways, decked me, and
then proceeded on his way.
The difficulty Dr. Kissinger poses resides mainly in the fact that
hes not really bothered or antagonized by anything anymore.
I followed him around for the better part of a week, appearing at
his book signings, at his conferences, his social functions. I even
helped him carry his groceries home a few times.
I knew I shouldnt lose hope, but it was a difficult few days.
And then, as we were walking home one evening, groceries in hand,
Dr. Kissinger simply paused for a moment, turned, and belted me
across the face.
My primary concern for Toni Morrison was that she wouldnt
be able to draw blood. Suffice it to say that my fears were soon
allayed by the deep scar that now resides upon the tip of my right
When I reminisce upon my encounters, rarely are there moments of
regret or guilt. In the end, its not my fault. I didnt
write The Bluest Eye.
The problem with Arthur Miller, I soon realized, was that he had
simply been awarded the Pulitzer Prize, yet not the Nobel Prize.
But its a notch.
As such, I allowed myself a little leeway in the matter of provocation.
Wow. You were married to the most beautiful woman ever...
So... Whats it like to fuck that up?
Hes kind of old though, so he only really bruised around
my collarbone and worked the midsection a bit before getting tired
and going home to watch Murder She Wrote. Seeing as how I
was still slightly conscious, I followed his lead and returned home
to watch Murder She Wrote as well. It was the episode in
which this guys severed head turns up in a luncheonette and
its up to Angela Lansbury to figure out why aliens are so
interested in colonizing the earth.
With his sleek features and boyish good looks, Yassar Arafat comes
across a bit like an ugly muppet.
Actually, my favorite episode of Sesame Street was the one
in which Arafat and Alec Baldwin made an appearance and lectured
Elmo on the Oslo Peace Accords and why Elmo should always cross
the street with a grownup.
Arafat: Well, Elmo, crossing the street is much like obtaining
Jerusalem. It is something I have sworn to do.
Elmo: But arent you scared?
Arafat: I know those cars look awfully big to you Elmo,
but if you let your fears control you, theyll overcome you.
Elmo: Elmo love you.
Then Mr. Snuffleupagus strapped on some C-4 and blew the shit out
of disco. 12 Muppets were injured in the blast, including 3 Fraggles.
Big Bird called for a halt to terrorist activities, but, since he
was simply a gigantic, yellow bird puppet, no one really listened
to him. I never saw how the episode resolved though.
In any case, Arafat was the first Nobel laureate to attempt a jump-kick.
I was sent as a Saudi delegate to smooth over peace initiatives,
and thats when he took the flying leap. The moment the door
opened. Before he saw my face, I saw the shadowy, groggy imprint
of a foot.
Granted, he is a bit old now, and he required some help and a boost
from a few of his officials to get airborne, but that bastard knocked
me out cold for three hours. It was in my stupor that I had a vision...
In my vision, Ghandi appeared before me and helped me get up. He
then made contact with a roundhouse kick to my head. Throwing me
off center, he performed a quick series of shoulder chops. And then,
his special move: as I lay on the ground squirming, he pinned me
with his butt, sat on my head, and drowned me in a continual stream
Ghandi: Ive been holding that one in for 50 years.
Its all a matter of passive resistance.
me: This is amazing. Getting the shit kicked out of me by
Ghandi... this is such an honor. No one will ever top this.
Ghandi: God would be here doing this Himself, but He was
never awarded the Nobel prize.
me: But neither were you.
Ghandi: God and I got overlooked every year.
Wheres the justice? I commented as I was silenced
by an especially musty, creamy, and debilitating fart. I could see
that it took a lot out of Ghandi; a lot of effort.
Suddenly, I saw nothing but blue-violet, and then passed out.
When I opened my eyes, things were cloudy. I sat up, clutching
my head. The subtle hint of an electrically charged fart still hovered
in the general vicinity. The air was thick; dense with fart.
The heavy aroma of philanthropic fart carried itself through the
room; through the houses and neighborhoods; the cities and provinces...
The fart spread in all directions, doing in its dispersion and death
what Ghandi had attempted in life, bringing a calm to the land;
intoxicating its inhabitants with love and methane.
For a brief moment, it felt as if it could have been imagined,
but the smell was too overpowering; too convincing. Before long,
Ghandis phantom fart had blanketed the world in a stinky haze