The philosophy debate is today, a small society of students who only attend mandated meetings to keep funding. I loathe them, they know nothing about the beauty of philosophical conundrums, of metaphysical epistemological ontological epiphenomenalism and existential inquiry. Rejects, each adorned with curly hair, exclusively male, lanky, like the dying arms of a shipwrecked sailor reaching out to the sun in the delusion of it being God. I could go on, and I will. They have this game they play where they try and gaslight me into making a fool of myself, they are usually drunk and drugged up before they even show. The follies of placing the debate on a Saturday night, of my precious society, now full of 20-year-old man-children. Here they came, funnelling through the door in the same clumsy manner a novice nurse installs a catheter. This is no urethra, and the waste products of this gang will not be sucked through the tube of order.
They slump in their chairs, giggling and showing each other redundant imagery on their mobile devices. I can see by their pupils that they are barely coherent, these jackals, these reprobates, scallywags, sillybillies, societal vampires! No, no, I must keep composure, lest their degeneracy infect my decorum.
“Today’s debate will be on the nature of hierarchies present within nature!”
A simple subject for their smooth spam brains to chug through.
“Can’t you make it simple bro.”
Noodle-boy, a pot noodle lies on his head, his curls are like the filtration residue of the sperm from the statue of David’s sizable manhood.
“This is simple, Robert.”
“Dude, it’s Bob. No one calls me Robert.”
“No, Bob is what a duck does on the surface of a restless sea. You are Robert.”
“Bro, just because your name is dumb as fuck doesn’t mean you have to make mine the same.”
His hyenas laugh, knee-slapping, chin-wagging, rip-roaring time, I hate them. I want to fire him out of a cannon into the all-consuming anus of the world.
“My name is that of an emperor, but from now on I shall call you Bobert. See, a compromise, something your parents should have done before your mother’s biological clock took over.”
I catch in the corner of my eye one of them recording me.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s for snapchat dude.”
“I do not know what that is.”
“Don’t worry man, it’s cool.”
It is like I am conversing with aliens that have just learned how to poorly mimic a human. Why must they be so painful, why must they be hidebound to the tradition of being a fucking moron.
“Enough, someone begin the debate!”
“I can’t even remember the topic.”
More laughter, more snapchat.
“Hierarchies within nature.”
The room falls silent, like a sensory deprivation chamber. My senses are deprived of good company, instead, I am with men who are as appealing to share space with as kissing an old woman covered in thick lipstick.
“I dunno man, capitalism or some shit.”
“How do you think it came to be?”
“Bro, why the hell would I know that.”
I cannot take this anymore, we are barely 15 minutes in and we have said not a single thing of value.
“What do you know? Someone, tell me what you know?”
“I know we joined this society to chill in a cool place and get funded to drink. Then they assigned you here and you’ve been busting our balls ever since.”
They are beyond help, I usher them away and they promptly leave to run amok. Another Saturday night wasted, I could have stayed at home reading a classic, watching a Korean film or derma rolling my scalp. Instead, Bobert and the boys stopped all that dead in its tracks. Maybe I have been fired out of the cannon and into the all-consuming anus of the world.
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