Found this while sorting through McDougal's "keepsake" box at his mom's place a few weeks ago..
Science and the Discovery of Self By James McDougal (Age 9)"Pasta, Jim. It's pasta."
What the hell did she know? They're fucking "Wagon Wheels." Says so right on the box. I have my doubts about these mushy, sauce-covered 3/4 inch noodlous concoctions' ability to support the carriage through the rough terrain of the American West.
Let me back up a bit. "She" is my sister the chiropodist. "I" am an explorer along the lines of Messrs. Lewis and Clarke. In an era when there is little left to explore (what with the highways, horse trails, and satellite imagery), my job is rather daunting. I do not face the same dangers as 18th century explorers. Mine are primarily financial and/or based on my limited comprehension of the world around me.
I remember a man in the old neighborhood. We used to call him "Mr. Sweet Daddy No Pants." He was a colorful squat man with a red nose and rosey cheeks. I remember a steady stream of water spewing forth from his scalp.
"That was a lawn toy, Jim. It was a lawn toy that you hooked to the garden hose. And you were the only one who called him Mr. Sweet Daddy No Pants. I believe everyone else called it by its correct name: Mr. Bobbles, the Wet and Wacky Lawn Clown."
My sister is a pragmatist. Earlier I said "Chiropodist." I got those words confused. She is not currently employed. Very practical though.
"I forbid you to set out on this assinine journey."
I am her elder. Rule of law suggests she cannot issue edicts of that nature. And if she does, I am in no way obligated to follow them. She is just making noise - like a busted leaf blower.
"I am off to explore the American West with my trusty pack mule pulling this handcrafted wagon, which contains all necessary food rations, scientific gear, and advanced weaponry I will need on my journey."
"You haven't a pack mule, Jim. That's Scraps the dog, and he's not yours. He belongs to Mrs. Kellerman of Hertzel Avenue. Should you make it out of the neighborhood, she will assuredly call the police to report a criminal dognapping."
"We all make sacrifices in the name of science," I reminder her. Her name is Peggy.
"You're absolutely mad," Peggy said, throwing her head back in mock disdain.
"I am not so mad that I do not see the manner in which you've chosen to assault me," I noted. "Rather than evaluate my scientific quest with an impartial eye, or attack some readily apparent physical or character flaw, you've chosen to set science back three decades with four simple words - two of which contracted to form one word, but did not eliminate the essence of the true word count, which shall remain four."
"I'm calling father," she insisted.
"So be it," I said. "I'm sure even the honorable Thomas Edison had his detractors. I am departing now, regardless."
"That's it. I'm calling father immediately."
"Very well," I said. "I'll write when I make land west of the Mississippi."
"You won't make land west of the front lawn."
"I'm leaving now."
"You haven't pants about you," she said.
"Scientists needn't pants. Think of the Greek thinker who streaked naked and wet through the streets of Athens shrieking Eureka at the discovery of displacement."
"I don't know of whom you are speaking."
"Science needn't pants."
"Science need only the ability for rational thought," she sighed. "What do you hope to achieve with this absurd quest?"
"Discovery, exploration, peace, and knowledge," I said. "The goals of all scientists."
"You're out of your over-sized lithium-imbalanced gourd. I have father on the phone now."
"MUSH!" I commanded Scraps.
"Father wishes to speak to you," Peggy said, handing me the phone.
Sadly, I was not able to take the call at that moment. Scraps had turned upon me and swarmed about my face like a demon sent straight from Hades to evicerate my immortal soul. When I tightened the reigns, instead of plodding forward as expected, he turned on me and bit me several times on the face. I swatted furiously at him, but he would not be dissuaded.
"Take a message, Peg. I've demons about me."
I finally managed to subdue the evil beast with a combination of left and right hooks to the beast's frothing mouth.
"Father says you're not to leave the yard."
Scraps ate my wagon wheels and was chewing through the leather straps I'd placed upon him.
"Very well," I said. "Bring me the lawn clown. I shall disect him and study his innards in the name of science."
"You haven't a scalpel."
"Then I shall use an incisor wrenched from the mouth of this devil dog. Bring me the God damned lawn clown!" I am a patient man, but when it comes to practical study, I have my limits. Peg should have known not to cross me on that front.
When father returned, Mr. Sweet Daddy No Pants had been successfully autopsied, photographed, and catalogued. I was in the process of re-assembling him per the manufacturer's specifications. A representative from the manufacturer guided me through the process via the telephone.
"Terminate your conversation immediately, James," father commanded. "The mission has changed."
I hung up the telephone without so much as a polite "fare the well." When one is at the mercy of generous benefactors, he is unable to achieve true freedom. Being a mere nine years old, I find myself in such a situation. As such, my research is routinely and unnecessarily hampered by the limitations of my progenitor's conceptual understanding of scientific study. I shall soon apply
for a grant or perhaps for emancipation from my family so that I may be free of familial shackels.
"What study I now, father?"
"Study your rear end in the wood shed, fashioning a switch with which I might punish you."
"Yes, father."
As the repeated lashes rained down upon my uncloaked posterior, I thought of Sir James Chadwick, who discovered the neutron some years ago, and I wondered if he faced similar obstacles to his search for fundamental scientific truths. And then it occurred to me. I was not taking these lashes just as one man. In a Jungian moment of truth, I realized my father was lashing out at scientific discovery through the ages. I was taking lumps for Fermi, Einstein, Oppenheimer, Newton, and all the greats upon whose shoulders I stood.
You may knock off the top of the tower, father. But the foundation is impenetrable.
Labels: dogs, finance, legal, McDougal, mule, phone call, The West
