PLEASE NOTE: Agents — which are usually called critical thinkers by most rational people, but “agents” by me because I am completely insecure and have a tenuous foundation to my thesis — have been descending on me at all hours. They’ve even sent me some awesome Kendrick Lamar B-sides in an attempt to ingratiate themselves with me. Since the whole point of embracing conspiracy theory involves eliminating even the most modest of doubt upon my deranged ideas, please alert me to their sullies so that I can block and delete and muzzle them by physical force if necessary. I have no ability to consider the facts. Thank you.
Good morning Family:
Yes, I know we’re not related. But I hope that you, much as you have with my colleague Son of Baldwin, can recognize the import of my message because I’m self-important enough to capitalize a noun that doesn’t really apply here. You see, it’s very important that I matter. I have a novel coming out in January. But I am the Son of Morrison! (I can produce no evidence of why Toni greeted me as one of hers. But please take my word on it.)
Reporting from Brooklyn (Bed-Stuy/Crown Heights/Ducksville/Tapis Village):
Yes, I’m aware that some of those neighborhoods may not actually be in Brooklyn. But my hope is that you’ll go poking around for these fictitious vicinities anyway in order to grant me more authenticity as a Brooklynite who has lived here for 137 years and who will always know more than you. Yes, I know it’s not possible for any human being to live that long. But I have. You must believe me.
There was yet another night of extremely loud cackles starting at 8 p.m., and ending at about 2 or 3 a.m. It’s possible that I may have hallucinated the laughter. But I’m getting reports from my imaginary friends that everyone else is hearing menacing titters. Like it’s on a set schedule. Much like the buses and the subways. In fact, I called the MTA to ask if they had a specific timetable for the diabolical cackling. And they told me that I was crazy and that I needed to go to sleep. Do you see what I mean? They’re on to us, my dear Family. This is the second or third year of this (it began not long after The Dawn of Time/The Start of the Renaissance). Yes, I know my math may be a little bit off. But trust me on this.
Anyway, last night was the loudest cackling I have ever heard in my entire life (and I have cackled quite a bit myself in my 137 years of living in New York City — well, in the early days when I actually possessed a true soul). This doesn’t sound anything like your normal, garden variety laughing over a good joke. Think of that and multiply it by 34,512,472. No, I’m not exaggerating. I’ve done the math myself and it’s frightening. This was like someone unleashed an entire military force of vicious cacklers throughout all of Brooklyn. I am a humorless man. And because I have not laughed anytime recently, let me assure you that this was war.
The media has proven deaf to my half-baked speculation and queries. I told my neighbors about my cackling theory and they said, “Robert, honey, let’s go get stoned. You’ve had a hard day and you’ve been staring too hard at your monitor.” But I relented on their kind entreaties to chill the fuck out. No! I believe that the cackling is part of a coordinated attack on librarians! Yes! You heard me right! This is an attack meant to disorient and destabilize the efforts of anyone who wants the libraries to sustain their services during the pandemic. Since we have been denied the comforting sounds of microfilm and microfiche machines, the hope is that our brains can be retrained to new sounds so that we never do any invaluable research again!
The goal, we think (pardon the unexpected switch to first person plural, but there are a lot of voices in my head), is multifaceted.
1. Microfilm deprivation as a means to create confusion about the fact that there was once a time in which you could find a 1967 article in Ramparts if you wanted to and stoke tensions between those who recall that there were magazines sixty years ago and those who believe that life started roughly in 1994.
2. Desensitization as a means to get us so used to the sounds of cackling that we will all laugh uncontrollably like hyenas when some unspecified they rolls into town with an ordnance of banana peels, slapstick boards, and other comedic implements that will be used to raise collective wellbeing so that we will never know the difference between real comedy and comedic warfare. It’s meant to sound funny because, very soon, all of us will be laughing uncontrollably as part of a sinister government plot to prevent us from living a joyless life.
We think this is psychological warfare. And, by “we,” I mean me. This is the first wave for any loopy attack on the horizon.
If you see a kid laughing, know that he is an enemy against librarians! Know that he is a pawn! If any of your neighbors can find even a soupcon of mirth during these troubled times, I urge you take them aside and tell them that the whole purpose of existence is austerity and that laughing aids the enemy.
The government and the mainstream media are, of course, remaining coy and pretending to be clueless about this scheme. Nobody understands that they are being used. Even when I allow the voices in my head to speak with them, they still won’t listen!
I know I sound like I should be a mental institution. In fact, I’ve been to six mental health facilities in the last four years. But you really need to listen to me.
I’ve lived in New York City long enough to know what a schmear is. But I refuse to countenance the many schmear options that this mighty metropolis has because I am very afraid.
And New York City has some of the BEST schmear you’ve EVER seen.
I hope that my dramatic words have frightened you into believing my dubious thesis.
P.S. Please buy my book.
P.P.S. My book comes out in January.
P.P.P.S. How did you ever believe so quickly in my preposterous theory?
P.P.P.P.S. Well, pretend like you never read this and buy my book.
P.P.P.P.P.S. The cackling is real! It always will be!