I was in my eleventh year of graduate school at Yaccamaw University when I first encountered the work of the woefully obscure Chinese-Irish philosopher Chang McGillicutty. His work spoke to me in an astonishing and exhilarating way that I had never experienced before. I immediately abandoned my 1,800 page thesis on the necessary attributes of a Kantian a priori synthetic truth, the fruit of long and painful labors, to focus on this new and startling body of work.
Fourteen years later, I had finally completed my 2,785 doctoral thesis on Dr. McGillicutty’s subtle and beautiful Cold Goulash Assertion, which has been expressed by Heffermeier thusly: “There is an inverse relationship between one’s subjective estimation of the truth of a given proposition, and the going price for a 45 RPM single of Debbie Harry’s Rap-sody,” and by Jollins in these words: “It’s all a bunch of horseshit anyway.”
My esteem for his work knew no bounds. Therefore, my delight was inexpressible when I learned, late in my fiftieth year, that Dr. McGillicutty himself had rented an apartment immediately above my own!
At first, I was too nervous to acquaint myself. Every time I bolstered my courage to visit, I was repelled by the interwoven and shockingly loud strains of White Zombie and Vivaldi that poured from his apartment. (The Doctor would eventually explain that this was his “bathtime music.”)
But one day my difficulty resolved itself, when I awoke to find him pounding at my apartment door, shouting wildly about “the shingles, the shingles!” (I would later understand that he was trying to demonstrate the Foccaccia Principle, which he wrote about so perplexingly in Analytic Dissertation I, but I was then too ignorant to realize it.)
This was the beginning of my personal relationship with the Doctor, in which I thought of myself as his protégé, and he apparently thought of me as some sort of wingless penguin, or, occasionally, a surprisingly vigorous Jell-O-mold. In those first weeks, I painstakingly reread all of his major works, including On Aliometric Disconvergence; the encyclopedic Diatribe on Everything; On Why I Lose Small Things (subtitled Like Keys, Especially); the rather difficult Styrofoam Cucumber Speculations; and his foray into crime-fiction, There Sneezed the Stranger. Each offered stunning new interpretations in light of my new acquaintance with the man himself. And yet so much evaded me.
I sometimes became very discouraged in those early days with Dr. McGillicutty. His words and his behavior were so far beyond my comprehension that I would sometimes become angry with him, and yes, even speak harshly to him. This never failed to put him in a jovial mood. Once, he offered me all of his chickens if I would continue shouting. But his overwhelming presence, the mysterious wisdom that gleamed in his lazy eye, always drew me back, to study, to learn more of his amazing philosophy.
The scope of Dr. McGillicutty’s work is staggering. Nothing from political geology to first-hand ethno-botanical research is omitted from his canon. During those evenings we spent together, I, sipping a light wine, he, continually asking me to hold his legs for keg-stands, I had the most enlightening intellectual and spiritual experiences of my life. One night, he would speak of reconfiguring the components of my refrigerator to create a powerful nuclear device. The next, he would speculate on Kierkegaard’s shoe size. On one memorable occasion, he reconciled Islam with Shinto, Scientology, and membership in the National Philatelists’ Society (and, almost offhandedly, the works of Wilhelm Reich and George Michael). He never failed to astonish.
Once, he let slip that he had long been working on a book, a magnum opus. He had once attempted to publish a portion of it, but had been censored, and his publisher, murdered. Needless to say, once I had gained this knowledge I pestered him ceaselessly. Finally, after enduring long months of painful beatings, I was allowed to see a few pages of the manuscript, entitled This Bird’s Gonna Fly.
Later, the Doctor took a sudden nap in the middle of a lecture on transmissible halitosis, and I stealthily copied a few paragraphs, ranging from the technical, through the autobiographical, to the purely creative. Now that Dr. McGillicutty has passed on, and his papers have been lost, I feel it is my duty to share these fragments.
From a section titled Constancy:
I have long argued that the true worth of intrisicity must, finally, be assessed in pan-elastic and jubilant terms. Certain unworthy critics (such as Dawson) have misinterpreted my argument to mean that intrinsic elasticity must, inherently, be of an extrinsically pan-biliousness which only posttrinsically assumes a jubilant, multi-bilious aspect. These critics are, of course, dog-brained beetle-fuckers, and I invite them all to jubilantly taste my shriveled nutsack.
***
A paragraph from an uncompleted essay, The Origins of Evil:
It is vital to trust one’s intuitive sense of evil. Many of us forget this, as, for example, when we absently pound a kitten repeatedly with a meat tenderizer, or purchase a collection of the poems of Rod McKuen. And, to confuse the issue further, evil often masquerades as unimpeachable goodness. Few are aware, for instance, of Mother Teresa’s lifelong ambition to someday appear on America’s Funniest People. However, an individual is always safe to trust in his own personal moral compass. I have never listened to those who condemn my practice of filling Dixie cups with the warm sputum of male African white rhinoceroses, and handing them off to marathon participants. I know in my heart that this is right.
***
Some notes under the heading Family:
I told Cynthia that afternoon about the stock-market crash. She seemed distant, until I removed the lenses from my microscope-glasses. She started to weep suddenly, but I had become distracted by a dog on the front lawn, and didn’t notice until she had wiped the tears away. Only her mascara informed me.
***
Mother raised us to be self-sufficient. The weeks she and my siblings spent on vacations taught me that I had to trust myself, rely on myself, and if necessary, get myself to a hospital. It was only many years later that I saw the wisdom in her actions.
***
I never knew my Father. At least, not well. I mean, well enough to say hi if I saw him on the street.
***
I reflect often on my childhood, replaying its events in my mind. I will never forget the look on Old Man Tibbert’s face when he saw what I’d done to his donkey. Or the time Father gave me that losing lottery ticket for Christmas. I think my favorite memory of all, though, must be my sixth birthday party. All in one day, I discovered the inexorability of truth, saw a magic show, and pulled down little Sandy Mollins’ pants.
***
A brief note under the heading Dreams of Sheboygan:
I wandered through a street that was paved with cardboard, and saw an image of myself reflected in its corrugated truth.
***
From Epigrams:
Kantian a priori truth is like a broken toilet. They both overflow with the sublimely banal.***
There once was a man from Peru
Who made love to a ten-year-old Jew
(Remainder unreadable)
***
From Haikus:
Ugliness pervades
What is that that smells so bad?
Jesus, this place sucks
***
Pickled lollipops
Who is that black private dick
Who gets all the chicks?
***
Seething in the mug
Golden lollipops’ distress
Condoms rented here
***
Took the Jeep downtown
Saw a really good movie
I forget the name
***
Something doesn’t jibe
Interchronoplastic space?
Edmonson was right
(Entitled Haiku Critique of Johnston) ***
The passing of Dr. Chang McGillicutty is the greatest loss philosophy has suffered since Nietzche began to devour his own toenails. I hope that, with these never before seen fragments, interest in the Doctor’s vast canon will be rekindled. Yet, neglected and denigrated as he was in life, why should I now expect the philosophical community to acknowledge his genius?
More likely, these pages will find publication in an obscure journal, if indeed they find it at all. I hope against hope, however, that, if naught else, some young graduate student will be sufficiently intrigued to seek out a copy of Dr. McGillicutty’s introductory text, Epistemology for Fucking Imbeciles, and that it will spawn a lifelong passion, and create in him the same sense of existential fulfillment that I have found, with the guidance of this inimitable man.