You see this here? This is the world’s smallest cello playing playing the saddest song just for you. I’m a Marxist, and the State stopped making violins in 1910, so we only have cellos now — is that okay, huh, you capitalist pig? I learned this “smallest violin” expression in Barnes & Noble circa 2007, after noticing they shelved Slavoj Zizek Presents Leon Trotsky: Terrorism and Communism under Trotsky instead of me. I started bitching in some incomprehensible foreign accent and my friend was like “Dude, I’m playing the smallest violin just for you,” while rubbing his fingers together as if in effort to stimulate some long lost clitoris down the block. But enough about feminism.

Now you see this? This is the world’s only 66.7% sized tuba. Yeah, I got it from the one of the psychiatric nurses who was following me down hallway D4 (one wonders why I had a catheter inside me). One wonders about many things: the Grand Fallacy of Western Ideology; why I keep seeing anal in psychoanalysis; what anti-perspirant  Marx used, cuz I sure as hell haven’t found one. Maybe free-market ain’t so bad.

So here’s the deal: I got a cello and a 66.7% tuba playing something really edgy in that Eastern Europe way; really hammer n’ sickle in your ass. Would that be okay? A hammer and sickle in your rectum? Okay? Did you know that Slovenians invented sarcasm? Who else would make soup from a lamb’s head?

Now check it: I got two motherfuckin brass trumpets right here, and you’re blowing into them. Your lips are purple from all the broken blood vessels and the cool aid you drinking. You’re getting light headed from trying to keep up with my Grand Symphony in B♭, flat like your sister’s chest. And I’m about to plug them trumpet holes, mute your horn, just like that Crying of Lot 49 book, okay? Pynchon’s cool, but he handed over his tuition to Cornell with that dirty US dollar, where I simply handed my spirit over to Hegel, and the rest was history. Yah, I know history was written by the imperialists, but just bear with me.

Okay now give me a minute here…okay, what I’m holding now is a banjo, instrument of the bluegrass American wind. True, a banjo is not “constructurally,” “ontologically,” or “economically” an instrument which is usually played during a symphony. Welcome to post-modernism, bitch. Welcome to our complex, fractured, and fragmented world. This is the Age of Irony, which my mom misheard as the “age of ironing,” so I gave her a suitcase full of wrinkled shirts and said “get to work Ma, this is what Lenin was talking about.”

Wow. You guys really like following me around. Is this gonna air on 60 minutes? Or you gonna edit this down to a two-minute clip for that Jimmy Kimmel douche? You see, I don’t care about “fame,” “recognition,” the “ego,” or “showering.” I got ponderously formidable thoughts pounding in my skull, however stricken with sweat. I got big issues regarding globalization, political theology, multiculturalism, and film. Someone once told me that assholes call movies “film,” which means, duh, I may be an asshole — speaking of which, why is this toilet seat down? You see this? I got an imminent 14-incher here currently post-structuralizing my colon, and it didn’t even take me out on a date!

Remember that world’s smallest cello? Well I’m playing it now just for you in my backyard, which looks like ground zero did after 9-11. And don’t get me started on 9-11, damn. Okay, so you got me started. Check it: 9-11 was a Cheney/Bush joint yo. Lacan called it way back in the 70s with that castration complex bit. Omg you’re so slow. Those twin towers were the cocks of Dick Cheney and W. Bush’s respective dads, subconsciously, of course. The porta potties are being evacuated soon, so I can’t get into the phenomenology here, but blame 9-11 on the Christians, Muslims, or Jews, I don’t care. I’m blaming the current state of my backyard on those honorarium checks which haven’t arrived yet. Yale emailed me the Czech is in the mail and I replied, “this is no time to bring up Kafka.”

Um, I’m getting a little tired here. It’s way past my bedtime. Dunno how things work for all you ravers and crackheads, but here in room 3B at the Marriott, curfew is at 10:00PM. I’m already four NyQuils into my first hallucination, so let me just bring it down to you straight, nigga. I’s a white guy, you’s all white bitches. And I’m having brunch tomorrow with James Franco, who’ll be playing me in a film whose working title is “Hairy Thoughts,” tagline The Life and Death of Slavoj Žižek. Of course, I’m not dead, but Barthes announced the death of the author way back when you’s all embryos, so there. Oh by the way, you see this? You see what I’m holding here? The world’s cheapest real doll, on my hammer sans sickle. Now fucking let me get to sleep.