HECKLER'S DOCTRINE #8:

. . . my cells are giving me shit. Getting improvisational, getting expansive with how they replicate. Tumors that fight back against the surgeons, growing their weapons just like you’d do with experience points in a video game or like the meats guns you see in those David Cronenberg pictures. I guess I’m some kind of mind/body battlefield, now, and here I thought I was giving peace a chance. My brain starts thinking thoughts I didn’t authorize, that traitor, and my nerves are burning the night away. In Soviet Russia brain thinks you-what a crock o’ Commie shit! And check this out: every time I try to eat, okay, my stomach says, “Sir, you can’t bring outside food here, we’re gonna have to ask you to leave,” and you know why? Because my stomach has rebranded itself as a high end downtown eatery, serving only the finest gut bacteria and spider limb confections complimented by an elite selection of spirits distilled from top shelf gastric juices. I can’t even eat for myself. I’ve got to outsource. I hired a whole team of underemployed restaurant reviewers to do my eating for me. It’s like I got fifteen Haruki Murakami protagonists on payroll taking huge bites outta my wallet-get me a goddamn tanker truck full of Pepto Bismol and we’ll just pump it directly into my soul! Oh, but it gets worse. My feet are constantly failing me. My spirit wants to shop at Target, but my feet keep steering me to Wal-Mart. My immortal soul reaches out for a volume of Proust, but my insurgent hands grab for Harry Potter. My heart of hearts longs to look upon Davinci and Picasso and Bosch . . . but my corrupted eye jellies can’t stop watching Skibidi Toilet . . . which brings us to the final disorder: my sweat glands have chosen to cease making sweat in favor of maximizing production of napalm . . . soon enough, the heat dome’ll ignite this rebellious bag of meats, and, at the very least, my soul may soar freely and directly into the sun! So that’s something to look forward to . . .