Einstein walks into a family home that have
the neighbours round too, as they go at it with the
kids teaching Newton if you can imagine F-
GM next door, only it’s a boy drowning in a lake on this side
of the world having taken an underground railroad.
Einstein says, “What the fuck is going on here then?” which is understandable
at least to the boy as the rest of the town
then comes in hanging-on-a-minute, as this toerag—bless him—needs to be tested
on whether he can spell “intersectionality”: he fails; he’s left
in the past where he belongs. Thank goodness!
The town, having restored order—ignored
the start—return to their homes relieved as the neighbours also crawl off
giggling—”Who would hang around with these freaks! (Phew!)”—leaving
the boy to turn up ten years later at his former
school with a shotgun aimed at certain sections of society from the history books, the report
about his crime stating he was an outsider as a child—“Trouble-
some”!—with a tendency to write in-
coherent and manic and jarring ramblings with reductive
references to our sacred and progressive knowledge, his words
difficult to say themselves sometimes studied so hard—”The poor
parents having to put up with that!”—only for nothing
to be inferred quickly (Einstein
claimed the shotgun for his own studies
and shot himself; because who would hang around
with these freaks).
Leave a comment