What can YOU say in six sentences?
A weedy professor in sandals and shorts that balloon out in front like he's pregnant or something, his white birdlegs crossed, sits sipping tea in Cafe Septiem as the sun sets on Broadway. A post-modernist philosophe-dipshit, he's laying the moves on a young thing with cleavage, expounding the shopworn idea that ideas, the ones that seek to make sense of the world, are passe, i.e., that reality's your own little bubble, your fact is my fiction, life's but a dream and all logic's a tulip, and meanwhile, you read with your butthole in darkness and Leonid Brezhnev's a bicycle seat.
You really can't know if you're Pia Zadora or dancing with Mandrills in bowties and spats...or maybe both, n'est ce pas?
The professor alludes he first thrashed this shit out with Foucault in a sidewalk cafe in Montmartre....
Nonetheless, real is real: that young thing's got lungs and hips that won't quit, and that tuning-fork woody that dipshit's got under his shorts there has weight, mass, duration, a short spitting distance--a monkey could measure his philosophical interest, from prostate to foreskin, down to the last micro-inch.
How real is that, all you sports fans?