The Chool Bus (ch40)

CHAPTER 40: The Forks take a holiday pause while Professor T scrambles to recover from his unfortunate holiday kick in the nads.

In the wake of the judge’s disastrous decision for the plaintiff, Abigail Weiser, Professor T woke up to find the local newspaper’s Sunday Edition had included a report/commentary focused on the absurdity of the matter in stark terms. The author was fairly well known in Professor T’s local area as a razor wit, with very little tolerance for puffery and pretense. He called the affair an exhibition of the great American farce. He said the proceding had offered a spectacle so perfectly distilled in its idiocy that one is forced to marvel anew at the sheer, unadulterated buffoonery of the human animal. That the case of Professor T and Abigail Weiser could stand as a gleaming monument to the contemporary battle of the sexes…a gladiatorial contest wherein the irresistible force of modern female vindictiveness collides spectacularly with the immovable object of male blockheadedness.

Not mincing words…here, read the rest of the column:

Observe, if you have the stomach for it, the plaintiff. Ms Weiser represents that uniquely modern breed of emancipated professional woman who, having loudly proclaimed her absolute equality and fierce independence, immediately retreats to the Victorian fainting couch the moment a bruised ego can be monetized. Harboring a simmering resentment over a romantic rebuff from the good Professor, she did not challenge him to a duel, nor did she simply seek out the company of a man with functioning eyesight and a pulse. Instead, she tripped into the defendant’s arms in his private office, waited for the exact moment of maximum awkwardness, and then summoned the weeping sisters of the Title IX industrial complex. Here we witness the crowning achievement of modern feminist jurisprudence: the magical alchemy that transforms the mundane indignity of unrequited crush into a $350,000 claim for “career stagnation.” It is a grift so transparent, so beautifully cynical, that one almost wishes to applaud her, were she not so entirely devoid of the charm required to pull it off.

But let us shed no tears for Professor Thompson, a man who proves, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that a string of advanced degrees is the surest armor against basic common sense. As a specimen of the American male, he is a pedagogical monk of the first order, wandering through life with the oblivious entitlement of a man who believes the universe is a purely logical mechanism. Confronted by an obvious extortion racket engineered by Ms  Weiser, he responded not with the ruthless cunning required to survive the modern American workplace, but with a naive, bleating faith that ‘truth and justice’ would prevail. What manner of colossal boob still expects truth and justice in an American courtroom? He is a man who absent-mindedly waltzes into a women’s locker room, utterly blind to the absence of urinals until confronted by a towel-clad fury, handing the professional puritans and culture-war hysterics their favorite ballyhoo on a silver platter. He went into a legal knife fight armed with nothing but the belief that his sheer innocence would shield him, neglecting even to prep his own character witnesses. He is the architect of his own public flaying, a martyr to his own magnificent hubris.

The trial itself, naturally, was a carnival of faux-moral outrage, presided over by a judge already emasculated by a spouse who makes her living shrieking about bathroom invasions. Into this circus strode the true masters of the Republic: Francis Scheizer and Brian Bok, a pair of ambulance-chasing pettifoggers who possess all the ethical grandeur of tapeworms. Bok, an Ichabod Crane figure hiding behind his fleshy partner, lobbed cheap provocations while Scheizer wept crocodile tears over the ‘utter villainy’ of a man whose primary sin was failing to return a crush. The legal profession has always been a refuge for scoundrels, but these two mountebanks elevated the shakedown to a high art, preying on the judge’s biases and the gallery’s insatiable appetite for witch hunts.

And so, the gavel fell, and the great wheel of cosmic comedy completed its turn. The judge, functioning less as a jurist and more as a high priest of the prevailing moral panic, awarded the plaintiff seventy thousand simoleons. But the climax of this sordid little drama is where the true genius of the American system reveals itself. Professor Thompson, suddenly locating his spine only after his head had been severed, pledges total financial ruin rather than part with a single dime to this judgement. Consequently, the victorious Ms Weiser finds herself abandoned on the battlefield, clutching a worthless judgment while the jackals of Scheizer and Bok turn their ravenous appetites upon her for their exorbitant fees.

The man loses his fortune and reputation to a phantom grievance…the woman faces personal and professional ruination at the hands of the very bloodsuckers she hired to soothe her bruised vanity. It is a flawless symmetry of mutually assured destruction. The battle of the sexes rages on, and as always, the only clear victors are the lawyers, while the rest of us are left to enjoy the unparalleled comedy of a civilization eagerly tearing itself to pieces over hurt feelings and misplaced faith.

As you might guess, this column was received with whispers and chuckles from Professor T’s hometown “coffee shop congress.” But, as a side effect, the columnist’s perspective gave Professor T an occasion to give Abigail’s motivations some deeper consideration. That said, it was a brief pause. He quickly snapped out of this reverie in the pool of compassion, and so then focused his ire toward the office of Scheizer & Bok. How to confound their rascally deeds… how to get revenge.

These are the conditions with which poor Mork T had approached the holidays. A sad state of affairs, indeed.

NEXT WEEK:
Buck Wellstone offers a different perspective on how Professor T can confound the extortion plot, reconcile with Ms Weiser, and avoid the enormous burdon of the court’s verdict over damages.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch17)

CHAPTER 17: Professor T explains the rationale for his research.

Professor T has some well defined opinions about the nation’s fibrillating heart. Indeed. But also, he tries to keep personal opinions to himself when discussing research as a general rule. After all, it’s about the study’s participants and data, not the researcher. That said, he’s fairly open with the Forks and Buck, especially after a couple of margaritas. Something about returning to his grunge-metal roots in Seattle filled him with a blustering swagger that can only be interpreted as flow state channeling.

To set the scene: It was the gang’s last night in Seattle. As a fitting sendoff, they chose a place frequented by their favorite artists, the Central Saloon. 

“Woohoo, air-fried vittles and libations!” Jack was hungry and the gang was stoked to commune with their favorite grunge ghosts. This was the place. In the 1970s the Central Saloon helped introduce live blues and rock to the neighborhood. In the 1980s it played a role in the rise of Grunge, hosting shows by the genre’s leading lights. 

“Yup… that sounds like a solid plan,” said Mork T.

Now, when Professor T gets all liquered up…deep into one of those no-holds-barred-rages…he starts grumbling about the Great Flyover. He’s been known to echo the likes of HL Mencken, lamenting how sectors of the rural South and Midwest are vast, Dollar General wastelands where intelligence is a mark of shame and systemic prejudice clings like barnacles on the ship of culture.

“We are what we think and the American media is currently a swamp of rot and resentment,” said Professor T. “The national heart isn’t just skipping beats… it’s in a full-blown, fibrillating code-blue emergency.” According to the Professor, a glowing ember of white resentment turned into a goddamn inferno the moment an intelligent, scandal-free black man ascended to the White House without an Anglo-Saxon overseer holding the leash. This sent the small-town bourgeois…those without skills to join the laptop/air travel class or too proud to mount the struggle bus…into a total psychological aneurysm. “Many find themselves lifetime members of the doomed underclass… they know it and somebody has to pay. This paves an express-lane for demagogues promising retribution.” Mork T was approaching a tequila-fueled angry flow state.

Through the din of house music (a bit too loud) and the compensating murmur of the bar patrons, Professor T, fueled by top-shelf blue agave continued, “Let’s get down to brass tacks. This tooth-gnashing fury, in part, can be traced to the degradation of an indispensable social asset…whiteness…it’s a bank account that’s fast approaching zero.” Practically yelling over the din, and channeling Mencken, he referred to the phenomena as anthropoids reacting to civilized humanity… a primal, beastly shriek to reestablish an hierarchy nature was busy flushing down the toilet. “I actually feel a twisted sort of compassion for their apprehension. Imagine the sheer, bone-chilling terror of realizing a person from a traditionally marginalized demographic was actually the smartest person in the room, especially if that person is a woman, and you’re standing there with nothing but fading ethnic/gender privilege and a bad attitude for consolation.”

“And that’s just one pole of oscillation,” Jack was familiar with Professor T’s 19th Century Wildian musings regarding the attractive and repellent forces of science and religion.

“Right! Religion, the opiate of the masses,” Professor T extended the segue. “You have that end times doctrine… the ultimate supernatural shell game. It’s a beautiful grift, really. The apocalypse has a 100% failure rate, but hustlers never run out of marks,” said Professor T.

Jack was beginning to tap the flow. “It’s a perpetual motion machine of dread. Every time the world doesn’t end the year and month predicted they chalk it up to a clerical error by a god who apparently can’t read a Mayan Calendar, and the believers line up for more disappointment a couple years later.” Jack was yelling to be heard over the din just as one song was ending and before the next began. Of course nearby patrons heard the outburst and turned to look at the Forks’ table. Some snickers, some frowns, mostly disinterested staring. It was Jack’s second pint of Imperial IPA, so he was feeling particularly uninhibited. In response, he gave the gawkers a take a picture, it lasts longer countenance, sorta dancing in his chair to the next song’s groove.

“Why do they buy it?” asked Billie. 

Professor T put on a disinterested, deadpan countenance. “The outlook is grim. For one, Their Rapture represents a cosmic revenge for disenfranchisement. It lets the ‘pious’ picture their godless neighbors being slow-roasted in a lake of fire while they sit on a cloud playing their golden harp.” 

Billie snickered, “Good one,” she winked. She had always marveled at doomsday ravers’ ability to willingly suspend disbelief regardless of how many end times deadlines come and go.

“It’s a bitter-kiss theology of spite,“ Professor T chimed in. He had always found the whole thing absurd. “You’ve got people who swear the world is ending next Tuesday yet they’re fighting like cornered rats to control the local library board on Wednesday,” nods from the table. “It’s not about saving souls… it’s about will to power exercised with willful ignorance,” said Professor T.

“Right.” Jack was hanging in there. “The Evangelical Ethnonationalist is just a person who wants the Kingdom of Heaven because the Kingdom of Earth…with its books, its reason, and inconvenient facts…is too goddamn hard to navigate.”

Buck, attentively taking it in, offered his take. “It seems we’ve gone from bread and circuses to grievance and retribution, politics designed to keep the populace alarmed and clamoring for a leader to save us from an endless parade of imaginary threats. One day it’s a Black man in high office… tomorrow it’s holy war waged against a veritable parade of boogiemen.”

“The circus never leaves town because the customer never changes,” said Professor T. The former bourgeoisie still remembers when the world handed them all privileges at the front of every line. But now, they’re being asked to make room for formerly disenfranchised minorities. They fear the truth and revel in the freak show.” Professor T was fading.

As if a powerful amphetamine-laced turbo-hallucinogenic mind-jacking recreational street substance had suddenly taken hold in Billie’s brain, she gave the boys a look that can only be described as lucid, psychotic, reptilian predation. She addressed Jack first. “Were you going to let the good professor leave it at that? What about the war waged in kitchens and bedrooms everywhere, always. Have you forgotten about the fact that Western Civilization only granted women personal agency in the last century.” This made a significant impact. The room was still quite noisy so Billy had to up the volume several notches above her comfort level. But there was no indication of physical strain, and she didn’t appear rattled, but the boys knew, they were in for an ass-chewin’ like they haven’t experienced since their porch-monkey days.

“I’m sorry, Billie.” Jack knew there was only one logical response to this oversight, contrition.

“In fact, the rise of Feminism and the reactionary Manosphere are factored into the survey and focus-group methodology,” said Professor T. “We haven’t begun looking for patterns as we’ve only just launched the focus-group tour.” Professor T realized his explanation to Buck and Billie had not included this element, but he knew the advocates for Patriarchal dominance was playing a big role in the social/political disunion. 

“It seems to me, this may be the most impactful conflict right now,” Billie was on fire. “The idea of society digressing, shoving women back into subservient roles, turning the clock back on Women’s Suffrage, the feminist bra burning of the 1960s, and all those Rosey the Riveters getting a post-war taste of bringing home the bacon, enjoying the independence that comes with earning her own way.   

Buck was no stranger to the phenomenon of strong women, his mother’s sister was an architect. But not until an unfortunate scene in her first marriage convinced her to go back to university.

The scene went thusly:

HUSBAND (Jake): “If i wanted your opinion, i’d give it to you.”
AUNT JASMINE: “Excuse me?”
JAKE: “That’s right, look (he throws a pair of his jeans to the floor)…
I am the dictator and you are the subordinate. We’ll have sex when i say so, and you’ll serve up the sandwiches on command. This is a one-way monogamous relationship. You stay home, tend to parenting, my libido, my sandwiches, etc, and i’ll take care of whatever side action i please. Someday, when the world finally wakes up and takes the red pill, i’ll take multiple wives. And that’s how it is. You can contradict these dictates as soon as you can put on those pants… (he points to the jeans on the floor).”
AUNT JASMINE: “Thank god i’m not pregnant.” (she plans her escape)

“I wonder why she didn’t see that coming before the marriage?” said Jack.

“They need to include red flag training in high school,” said Professor T.

“We need to elect a woman in the White House,” said Billie.

“I’m sorry, Billie, i won’t forget the battle of the sexes ever again,” said Professor T.

NEXT WEEK:
The Forks crash through the dense Oregon forests, dodging Sasquatch and coastal pirates.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links