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August 3, 2009 | by  | in Opinion |
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How to be Jackson James “this delete button is loaded!” Wood by Guy Suckup

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You will need:

  • 1 Medium-to-large army
  • Cloves, diced, in a baseball hat
  • The most comfortable swivelly chair in the office
  • A tendency to yell and throw things (preferably faeces)
  • Connections to the Rockefellers and hostile relations with the middle east
  • Weapons (to sell to the middle east)
  • Some LSD
  • 6,000,000 memberships to Camp Concentrate
  • To keep telling me to get off your chair

Heat the baseball cap up till warm. Fry the cloves, and throw them out the window, you won’t be needing them until the FBI come to imprison you. Put the cap on, and yelp around screaming in the pile of faeces. Send the army off to invade Mt. Albert, slay the dragon, rescue the girl, and you’ve won! When the FBI comes to take you in for questioning regarding the conspiracy charges they’ve drafted up for you, they’ll slip on the cloves and have to go home for a shower. While they’re doing this, pull out your LSD, take two tabs, and call me in the morning.

Now: let’s get political. For the 2000-word, 40-mark essay in my Molecular Medical Science Nuclear Regeneration exam paper, I was asked to explain and list various scientific terminology we have used in the course throughout the year, and with it outline the evolutionary basis of the human hindbrain, and build it into a cohesive argument for or against the idea that random genetic drift was primarily responsible for an evolutionary homeostasis in human brain genetics. Instead, I drew this nifty picture:

Anyway: Jackson James Wood is a wonderful man, and I really believe that Salient magazine would just be a worrisome quarter-quack of dunnage without him. One thing I have noticed that Jackson is really good at, is editing my columns into something beautiful, something sharp and bitey, something that only almost makes me want to kill myself when I sober up enough to read them. It occurs like this:

I will bowl on into the Salient office, put my Goretex jacket, crampons and balaclava on, ski down the mountains of our collective hate mail, mind-connect with the holo-internet, surf the porn, and regurgitate whatever I overheard people saying on the bus this morning, and chuck in a few big words I learned from my social science paper, complain about the state of arts scholarships, almost always ending my greeting sentence with the phrase “a marked lack thereof” just to be a dick. Jackson will peruse the first paragraph of my rant, usually something like this:

“Crooning, rhombenciphalon; licentiousnessity behestion-stimule to the vetrified coughing of masses of spurulous vehemence. I begat fodder of the Gods, vituperating the pecksniffian gymnophiliacs—‘get away, get away’ say I, ; ::::: _ oh, this homosociality_polyphiloprogenitivism all over my bathtub, rub a dub dub. Thence whereuponeverforlonity the orthogonalization in America: “Strewth mate, bugger me.” Coming; among. Oh, the cosmos, great, unanimous, undefined. Yea, to eschew obfuscations, that schoolboy wank, greater than mine, shall ye do. Save us from society.

Save . . . us . . . from this transfinity!!!!!!!!!!NO!NO!NOOO=OO_+OOOOO!!!!!!!!!!O!O!O!O!O!”

Of course, this is GREAT writing. But a decent editor (and Jackson is an amazing one) knows that it’s not GREAT ENOUGH—and can make this look like waffly student otorhinolaryncologicalist tramontaney desperate attention-seeking to the communist manifesto at silly mid-on, abaft the stern beam. (For sex.)

I would put this stuff in my embourgoisement thesis, but Jackson would then proceed to VOMIT ALL OVER IT with Michael and Rory non-stop for ten minutes, roll it up, and throw it away. Then he will brag that he is the only one in the office who can ever remember what a triphthong is. Then he will go back to telling me that it was DEFINITELY my fault that Daddy wasn’t around.

  1. Gilead then cut Ephraim off from the fords of the Jordan, and whenever Ephraimite fugitives said, “Let me cross,” the men of Gilead would ask, “Are you an Ephraimite?” If he said, “No,” they then said, “Very well, say Shibboleth.”
  2. If anyone said, “Shibboleth”, because he could not pronounce it, then they would seize him and kill him by the fords of the Jordan. Forty-two thousand Ephraimites fell on this occasion.

I wasn’t going to put those two bits there, but they kind of fit, and they somehow got into this document. I can’t be bothered changing it. This is another example of great writing. (About sex.)

But Jackson is such a triphibius somnambulist and a timbromaniac. Not to mention the triskaidekaphobia, and the fact that he looked like a total stegocephalian with that crazy mohawk. But that’s not the half of it, you should see him when he gets mizzenning the lazarette. (With sex.) Fart.

[Editor’s note: If you’re still reading at this point I commend your stamina. While realising this is just a big fat wank of an in-joke that none of you will get and is incredibly self-indulgent on my behalf, I seriously could not publish the column Guy wrote about disabled people. JJW]

But editing isn’t easy. Let’s go over some words in the craft of having huge sleep ins—I mean having no mates—I mean writing. Enunciating is what you are doing right now. Don’t scratch your chloramphenicol resistance gene! That’s gross! That means you are a sorcerer and a devil worshipper. ‘Kissing the gunner’s daughter’ is to bend over the barrel of a gun for punitive spanking with a cane or cat with nine tails. Wierd, huh? Onomatapaiea is the use of arty words that sound like things, like fuckin shitass, oi ya cunt. And a ‘fist dude’ is someone who you secretly know could kick your ass, but you will not admit this because you’ve had a few beers, but you’d love to just get him with a good whack on the plagioclastic methylbromoiodoisothiazolinone right on the tip of his plastron and watch him yelping around clutching his xerostomia, just giving himself a total jejunostomy. So to sum up: I’m not worthy of you, Jackson! Thank you! Gaping love-bubblets cavort from my sebacious glands in hydrophobic glee of basking in your friendship! Not to mention your editation and swear words! May I pretty pretty beauto-thrashingly please please knead your toes with my drib-a-drab rolling fingery pin on a feathery chopping board made of stilettos, coated in talcum (talcolm?-talcomm?) powder with my gaping wide nostrils all aflutter, inhaling sugary frothlets of most tenderly aromaticised jam of toe? (With sex.) My ever-forgetful sirlet, I would be honored.

Well, I gotta go. I’m off down the pub for some of this really scrumdiddlyumptious frobscottle. See ya next week students!

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