Yo-Yo Boing!

— I want a political orgasm. I won’t get it by talking to Migdalia. Let’s whop them one now before they cover their asses. I’ll write a memo to the provost and the president. They’re blatant liars. They said:

— It’s the outside search committee who rejected you. Crespo and I want you, but our hands are tied.

Outside search committee—my ass. They are the search committee, but they want to sound objective.

— No seas defensiva.

–¿Quién me va a defender, tú?

— Threaten Migdalia:

— But Migdalia, it’s unprofessional of Crespo to spread viscous lies about me at other universities. My first reaction was to file a grievance with the provost, but then I thought, no it couldn’t be, I’ve opened my doors to both of you, invited you into my home. Perhaps Crespo is projecting her own dislike of committees onto me.

— Yes, she said:

— I don’t like them either, but I go.

Bullshit! I’ll tell her:

— You love committees. They make you feel important. Part of a community. Where did you get that defamation. Why do you discriminate against me. Because I make fun of your committees. But I like to come, I tell you that. I love political orgasms. So, yes, I will serve on your committees. If I can get a political orgasm. Why not, ah, why not.

— Multiculturalism is dead, the fact that we teach it in universities is proof enough. What about the GAP adds, featuring Asian, African, Gay models. It’s not an African in African garb. It’s just an African model. It’s all GAP. That’s what is killing Europe. Unification in the name of marketing. To think all the great diversity of cheese in France is gone, long gone. Maybe they had five thousand cheeses, now they have five hundred because the specialty brie maker cannot compete, my darling, because in order to survive he must unify with all the other little brie makers to mass market one cheese to export to all of Europe, and the unification kills diversity of flavors, and languages, just like McDonalds is cutting down the rain forests in Brazil for the sake of raising hamburger meat — fifty, eighty indigenous languages a day drop off the face of the earth. For the sake of hamburgers. Why go to France if I have to carry a computer that spies on me, blinking Email messages throughout the night, telephones, faxes, and computers tracking my every breath.

— You love France.

— We go way back.

— I always thought of France as England’s wife. Germany’s tragedy was that it married Italy instead of Spain. Spain would have been the perfect match for Germany. Anti-Semitism began in Spain.

— My darling, the most racist country in Europe is France. They measured two thousand, three thousand skulls a day in the name of white supremacy.

— I thought those were the Germans.

— No, my darling, the Germans hurried harm along with statistics.

— And the British.

— We are too careless, my darling, to even balance our checkbooks. We would not trouble ourselves with statistics. Every Frenchman, on the other hand, is an accountant. When I was studying in Paris, my landlord measured the soap with a string, and charged me for every millimeter of soap I used. And when the refugees were leaving France, dying of thirst, the French lined up at the borders, offering them glasses of water, but when they were about to drink the water, the bloody bastards charged them. If they had no money, they would have no water. The only thing left in France is the mime.

— Y en Inglaterra ni mimos hay.

— Albeit, I would have never been seduced by England. That is why I escaped to France when I was fifteen years old. I fell in love with Paris. London grows on one, but one does not fall in love with London. London does not want anyone to fall in love with it.

— That’s why I always say England and France are spouses. But don’t deny me that the British are not racist. You obliviated the Indians.