Whistler’s Mother’s Son and Other Curiosities

Whistler’s Mother’s Son

The painting known as Whistler’s Mother gave birth to a son, a painting of the painter James Abbott McNeill Whistler. The painting of Whistler, in turn, painted a painting of its mother, the painting of Whistler’s mother. This painting, the painting of the painting of Whistler’s mother, painted by the painting of Whistler the painter, gave birth, but this time to a daughter, a flesh and blood daughter who turned out to be the real-life Whistler’s mother. This daughter, Whistler’s mother, gave birth to a son named James Abbott McNeill Whistler, who immortalized her in a painting known as Arrangement in Gray and Black Number 1.

The Invention of Catch

After Miro

A man threw a stone at a bird, and the bird threw it back, and the man threw it back at the bird, and the bird threw it back at the man, and the man once again threw the stone at the bird, and the bird once again threw the stone at the man, and the man threw it back, and the bird threw it back, and the man and the bird threw the stone back and forth.

In the Cave of Signed Paintings

In the cave of signed paintings, all the paintings are signed with paintings of cave paintings.

The Flintstone Variations

It’s language that sets us apart from the beasts, says Fred Flintstone.

Nothing sets you apart from the beasts, Wilma replies.

* * *

On the radio, three critics are discussing cave paintings. One contends that they’re primitive, another that they’re neo-primitive, and the third that they’re not primitive at all, that they’re as modern as the wheel. All this intellectual talk bores Fred Flintstone. Besides, he prefers Norman Rockwell.

* * *

Later that night, Fred and Wilma fuck. Fred prefers the bronto position. In fact, most prehistoric men prefer the bronto position.

* * *

Fred and Wilma go to the movies. It is a foreign film, one by Stoneyoni. None of the cave men in the audience understand it, and when the film is over they all demand their money back. A scuffle ensues in which several die. That’s why the Flintstones like to go to foreign films—you can always count on a scuffle.

* * *

The Flintstones take a vacation. They go to visit the Grand Canyon. When they arrive they’re disappointed. The canyon is nothing more than a shallow trench, hardly what you’d call grand. They send a picture postcard to the Rubbles. The Rubbles agree that the Grand Canyon is nothing to write home about, but they’re fascinated by the concept of picture postcards.

* * *

Though undeniably a modern stone-age kind of guy, Fred Flintstone still retains vestiges of an earlier code. While he does speak English, a sure sign of civilization, he often interjects into his speech a particular preliterate utterance—yabba dabba doo. What precisely is the meaning of yabba dabba doo? This question has occupied the attentions of paleontologists and linguists alike for many years. What is perhaps the most plausible theory is that yabba dabba doo is a mating call, a holdover from a time when Man could not express his excitement in a more socially acceptable manner, such as, Ooh baby, you really turn me on.

* * *

The town of Bedrock is up in arms. A family of Barbarians is trying to move into this neat suburban community. An incensed Fred and Barney decide to take matters into their own hands. They storm the house that the Barbarians are planning to move into. Coincidentally, the Barbarians are inside, taking measurements. What a stroke of luck. Fred and Barney attack the Barbarians, rip their bodies to pieces with their bare hands, and eat of their flesh.

* * *

THE DISCOVERY OF FIRE

Fred Flintstone feels fresh fruit furtively. Fred Flintstone frames famous Flemish frescoes. Fred Flintstone flaunts frilly feminine fashions. Fred Flintstone frenches flaming Franciscan friars. Fred Flintstone fondles Frieda Fleischman, floozie. Fred Flintstone fears fever from festering foreskin. Fred Flintstone finds Fassbinder’s films fascinating. Fred Flintstone finds Fielding’s fiction funny. Fred Flintstone finds Flaubert’s fiction fluid. Fred Flintstone finds Fitzgerald’s fiction fabulous. Fred Flintstone finds Faulkner’s fiction frightening. Fred Flintstone finds fire.

* * *

The doorbell rings and Fred runs to answer it. It’s a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses. We’re not interested, Fred says, and tries to close the door on them.

Wait! one of the Witnesses says. We know when the world is going to end.

Gimme a break, Fred says. It only just started a little while ago.

* * *

Something is bothering Fred Flintstone. He can’t put his finger on it, but something is definitely bothering him. Wilma notices. Is something wrong? she asks.

Yes, Fred replies, something is wrong, but I don’t know what it is. And then, all of a sudden, he begins to cry, uncontrollably. Wilma tries to comfort him, and in time Fred stops crying. Embarrassed, Fred apologizes for losing control.

That’s okay, dear, Wilma says. These days it’s all right for a cave man to cry.

Passed Out

As I left my building for a walk one Saturday morning, I saw a bunch of people standing around in a circle, looking down at the pavement. I figured whatever it was, there were enough people to take care of it, no need for another gawker, but still I was curious.

What happened? I asked a woman as I went to join the circle.

I don’t know, he was just lying there.

I wondered who it was. Perhaps one of my neighbors? It was, after all, right in front of my building. I couldn’t get a good look at the guy until I moved further into the circle. Then I saw who it was. It was me!

What was the meaning of this? How was I lying unconscious in front of my building and looking at myself from above at the same time? I was wearing the same clothes, the unconscious me and the conscious me. The standing, conscious me had no memory of anything happening to myself that could have caused me to be lying on the pavement.

Does anybody know his name? someone called out.

Yes, I said, it’s me! Peter Cherches!

Peter Cherches? That’s a funny name for a dog, someone else said.

Dog? I thought. Then I took another look. It was a big, mangy, stray dog passed out on the pavement, not me at all.

Embarrassed, I slunk away from the circle and then ran as fast and as far as my four legs would take me.

A One-Woman Show

She exhibited a ghastly pallor in the gallery. It was her first one-woman show, and she was nervous, fortunately, because her nervousness was the entire show, a conceptual installation, A Nervous Artist. It was the genuineness, the honesty of her nervousness that made the show the great success that it was. All the reviews were favorable: They spoke of the work’s essential humanity; they spoke of how the artist and her art were inseparable, yet this was not entirely the case, because the artist’s nervousness was such a hit that she sold it to a collector for a great deal of money. She was very calm at the opening of her second show, The Artist at Ease, and this show was an even greater success than her first, her calm selling for three times as much as her nervousness. Her third show was a retrospective.

Dissatisfaction

A man who was dissatisfied with his penis went to the movies one sunny day. As it was a sunny day, the movie theater was empty. As the movie theater was empty, the projectionist did not notice that the man who was dissatisfied with his penis was in the audience, so he didn’t run the film. The man who was dissatisfied with his penis was very upset. Not only do I have an unsatisfactory penis, he thought, but I am sitting in a dark, silent movie theater, missing a perfectly beautiful day. At which point he decided to ask for his money back. He went to the ticket booth and said to the girl, I would like my money back, as they are not showing the film, and I would like to enjoy this nice, sunny day.

Very well, the girl said, just show me your penis and I’ll be happy to refund your money.

At which point the man ran off, crying, cursing his penis, twelve dollars poorer and unable to enjoy a beautiful day.

The Man with a Steak Nose

There once was a man whose nose was made of steak. It was a T-bone steak, this man’s nose—a big, red, raw T-bone steak. In all other respects he was completely normal.

When he walked down the street people always stared at him because of his steak nose. People stared because it was not usual to see a man with a steak for a nose. Most of them meant no harm, they just couldn’t help staring. Some people—steak lovers—stared at him longingly, because his nose reminded them of how much they loved steak. Others—vegetarians—stared at him angrily, because the man’s nose reminded them of meat eaters. He tried not to let it bother him.

The steak-nose man led a fairly normal life. He had a job in an office, and he got along well with most of his office mates. Most of them got so used to the steak nose that they forgot there was anything unusual about the man.

Sometimes the man was a little sad because his nose was made of steak, but most of the time he didn’t even think about it.

One day the man decided he would like a pet dog, to keep him company. When he walked into the pet shop, all the dogs started barking when they smelled his steak nose. He chose a cute little dachshund. He brought it home and named it Frank.

The man and Frank quickly formed a strong bond. You could say they loved each other.

The steak-nose man’s friends at the office were very happy for him now that he had Frank, because they knew that he had been lonely, even if he never said it.

One day, several weeks after the man had bought Frank, they were play-wrestling. The man nuzzled his face with Frank’s, and Frank bit off a big chunk of his steak nose. Frank chewed on the piece of steak and the man saw that Frank was very happy.

The man was both sad and happy: sad because he was now missing a big chunk of his nose, happy because Frank was happy.

Kennedy’s Brain

I take the jar down from the shelf and stare at Kennedy’s brain. Kennedy’s brain. In a jar. In formaldehyde. I bought it for $3.95. I know it’s not really Kennedy’s brain. I’m not stupid. I know you can’t get Kennedy’s brain for $3.95. It is a real brain, though. A reasonable facsimile of Kennedy’s brain.

Why do I stare at Kennedy’s brain? I loaned my guitar to Eddie, so now I stare at Kennedy’s brain.

My next-door neighbors are Indians. From India. From Calcutta. They fight a lot. They make a lot of noise. I always hear them fighting when I’m staring at Kennedy’s brain. I get off on the sound. I can’t hear the words, but the sound is something else.

My neighbors are from Calcutta,

Their apartment is full of clutta,

They fight all the time,

When I’m staring at Kennedy’s brain.

Television. It’s the light. That bluish-gray light of television. Black and white. Best kind of light to watch Kennedy’s brain by. No sound. I’ve got all the sound I need. My neighbors take care of that. I just need the light. It doesn’t matter what’s on. It’s just got to be on.

Kennedy’s brain. I stare at it for hours. By the light of the television. To the sound of my neighbors. In the absence of anything else to do. And when I’m through, I put the jar back on the shelf.

Kennedy’s brain.

Kennedy’s brain.

Kennedy’s brain.

It’s Uncle!

It’s Uncle! Uncle has arrived! Uncle is here!

It’s Uncle! Uncle has arrived! Uncle is here!

Hello Uncle! Hello Uncle! Hello Uncle!

Boy, are we glad to see you.

And I’m glad to see all of you.

Are you really, Uncle? Are you really glad to see all of us?

Of course I’m glad to see all of you. I’m always glad to see all of you.

And we’re always glad to see you, Uncle.

I know. I’m always glad to see all of you, and all of you are always glad to see me, and we’re all always glad to see each other. All of us.

It’s Uncle! Uncle has arrived! Uncle is here!

It’s Uncle! Uncle has arrived! Uncle is here!

All of us. Each and every one of us is glad to see each other. We’re all glad to see each other.

Not me! I ain’t glad to see ya, says Father. I ain’t in the least bit glad to see ya. I wouldn’t care if I never saw you again. You could rot in Hell, for all I care. I ain’t glad to see ya. Not me. I ain’t in the least bit glad to see ya.

Why can’t you be nice once in a while? Says Mother. To Father. Why do you always have to be so nasty? You’re always so nasty. Why can’t you be nice once in a while? Says Mother. To Father.

It’s his nature to be nasty. Says Uncle, to Mother, of Father.

Who ya callin’ nasty? says Father. He’s angry. He’s mad. He’s incensed.

He’s fuming, boiling, raging, fierce. Wild, furious, fiery, rabid. Flushed with anger. Foaming at the mouth. He’s turning red. Gritting his teeth. Clenching his fists. He’s ready to explode!

You wanna fight?

You wanna fight?

You wanna fight you wanna fight you wanna fight?

And Uncle says, I didn’t come here to fight.

Then why did you come here? says Father.

It’s Uncle! Uncle has arrived! Uncle is here!

It’s Uncle! Uncle has arrived! Uncle is here!

Hello Uncle! Hello Uncle! Hello Uncle!

Uncle has arrived and we’re all glad to see him. All of us, that is, except for Father, who is not glad to see him.

It’s Uncle! It’s Uncle! It’s Uncle!

Are you glad to see me? says Uncle.

Of course, Uncle, of course. Of course, Uncle, of course. Of course, Uncle, of course. We’re all glad to see you.

Some of us, that is.

Reading Comprehension

I.

Twentieth-century Americans are happier than our ancestors because we have more to be happy about. Also, there are more of us to be happy, so the country is happier as a whole. We have many things to be happy about, but the happiest thing of all is that we are Americans.

Today’s American is happier than yesterday’s American because life is easier. Our forefathers, those great men who built our nation, did not always have