Parliament

           This is boring.  Parliamentary Law. Who gives a fuck about parliamentary laws? My professor. That's who. I swear, reading an instruction booklet made in a translation from someone from China would be more interesting than Robert's Rules of Order. There's five editions to this goddamn book, because you know, parliamentary laws keep us at the edge of our fucking seats. Hell, it's even more exciting than the MLA Guide. Idiots. But, the teacher's in charge and if I don't do these fucking assignments I'll flunk and Mom and Dad'll be pissed. So, here goes: Robert's Rules of Order Volume One. Of course, I can't check any of these out of the library, since they're reference books. Oh, we wouldn't want the students to take them home. Oh, no. Then, the sleeping pill industry would go under. Yea. We have to keep these in the campus library, along with the dictionaries and encyclopedias. 

           But, as I take the first edition out, I notice something. A small nic or cranny where this goddamn book is. The piece of shit is covered in dust since nobody ever looked at it before it became required and most other students bought it from the bookstore. But, my parents were able to save a whopping $40.00 by having me use the one at the fucking campus library. I shake the book and dust flies everywhere, but I stop and focus on the gap and the cranny. Then, for shits and giggles (that isn't trite), I pull on the cranny and the shelves start moving, which is unusual, since there aren't wheels on the shelves. 

           Then, I feel a vacuum, not a vacuum cleaner, but a sucking from the hole where this book was and I get sucked through this hole. Doesn't make sense. I mean, I'm 6' 3” and 240 lbs. How could I get through a book hole. Then, things start going C. S. Lewis on me.

           I look around. Imagine a place that looks like The Muppet Show, Barney, School House Rock, and Ren and Stimpy. That's what it's like.  But, I look at my body since I can't figure out how the fuck I got through that hole, and it's hybrid. Like, certain organs are normal and certain organs are cartoon. Maybe I'm high? No, I'm not. If I was high or drunk, I couldn't walk straight, and I can walk straight. Shit. Then, the singing shit starts happening. This old, white guy in a blue three-piece suit comes towards me with his right hand extended for a shake. Who still wears vests? Weird. I don't want to touch this guy so I ask soft, but direct: “Who are you and what do you want?” 

           With the smile and eyes of a stoner (behind his glasses), he says, “'Hello, boys and girls. This is your old pal, Stinky Weezel Teets. This is a song about a whale. No, this is a song about parliamentary law”. What the fuck? Maybe I am stoned. Then, Teets shows me to a red curtain and it looks like The Muppet Show. Then, the characters from The Muppet Show start singing I'm Just a Bill. Then, Teets starts telling me bullshit about how none of this could happen if it wasn't for Parliamentary Laws. Who fucking cares? I'm not running for Congress, I'm just trying to pass this stupid goddamn course. Then, shit starts getting distorted, man. Like straight lines are curved and curved lines go zig zag. 

           “Let's have a history lesson, ok kids?” asks Teets. I'm not a kid. Hell, I'm nineteen years old, so I say, “No”. Teets looks at me and asks, “No? But don't you care about . .” and again, I say, “No. All I care about is getting a good grade in this stupid course, getting my diploma, and getting the fuck out of here. That's it.” 

           Then, I start seeing and hearing all these fucked up movie quotes and cliches around me: “Looks like someone has a bad case of the Mondays,” “Like is like a box of chocolate,” “Save the conoleeze,” and other stupid quotes. How do I get out of this psychodelic hole? Narcan maybe? Don't know. Then, I start hearing The Happy Happy Joy Joy Song sung by live showings of C-SPAN 3. The congressmen and congresswomen are coreagraphed like Broadway. Fucked up. Then, I hear callbacks from RHPS: You have no neck, asshole, slut. 

           Remember, according to Robert's Rules of Order, if someone says something inapproriate, the chairperson says, “'You're out of order. Please sit down.” And if the asshole continues to interrupt the meeting run by Robert, call the fucking cops. 

           Then, I start to think about how important this shitty book is to meetings. But, why is it so goddamn boring?  Then, I realize my life mission. I'm going to write a Broadway Musical called Robert's Rules of Order, All Editions. 

           It's going to be great. Imagine, opening night, the critics at the media seats. Then, I know I'll have to do the history of this idiot, Robert. Who was Robert? Did he have a wife, husband, kids, or what? Where did this moron live? Why did he make this book so boring? Who was it orginally made for? Did he mean for the reading to be so fucking dry? 

           Or maybe I could make it a farce and make fun of parlimentary laws. Like, who really gives a fuck about these goddamn rules or even looks anything up in these goddamn books. Like the way professors assigned, Stanzas in Meditation by Stein to bore the fuck out of their students. Or I could make fun of the congress people having them try to find the exact page in this tome of a book when they have a goddamn problem. Or, maybe. Then, as always happens in these stories, I see a white light and I head towards it and I say goodbye to these morons in this fucked up world and return to the goddamn library still holding Robert's Rules of Order Volume I. 

           Like at the end of The Wizard of Oz, I don't know whether it happened or it was just a dream. I open my book, I open my bookbag, take out the folder, look at the goddamn assignment, and groan. I go to the check out counter and they tell me it's a reference book and I can't check it out. Why would anyone want to get this book out and why did the son-of-a-bitch assigned us to read three chapters of it? Why, God, why?