Knowing Rich as I do, believe me, if Cropper ever met him in real life and was not pissed to the gills because of this thread, they would probably sit down and have a great discussion.
I would take his books away from him, shave him down, and throw him into the trailer park to let the locals eat him. Well, actually, that is not all the way true, procedurally speaking. First, I would talk him into "my way of thinking," which would involve forcing him to down at least a half-bottle of green Chartreuse, and having him listen to some kind of foul YouTube videos, over and over again. Maybe The Residents, or Captain Beefheart, or, if I were feeling particularly inhospitable, one of those "Celtic Women" videos. Sporadically, I would say to him over-and-over again, in a meaningful manner "Nietzsche...yeah, Nietzsche..." He would find all these things, suddenly, strangely fascinating. His little Thing would get hard, despite years of engineering by the monks who make that foul liquour. Protein is important, after all, so I would, before he went into the full funk, make him amble across the street to the Circle K and "bring back hotdogs for the crew."
Of course there is that part where you scold them about "not bringing back blueberry slushies, I don't give a fucq if the machine was broke" section but this, really, is purely optional and open to circumstance.
This part is mostly because I have, courtesy of my violinist, a certain variety of Russian Mustard that will pretty much go into your mouth and then proceed to dig its way to China.
Then, and only then, would I throw him into the killing fields. They would rip the quarters out of his pockets and make him listen to the bad radio stations for hours. After that, he would "fall in love" with the local fatty, copulate, etc., etc., ad nauseum.
The deep crotch-itching would start sometime within 48 hours, one would hope, but timing is always dicey in these matters.
He would wake up in Soutwest FL's Regional airport, with a very large credit-card receipt for various items that he did not have in his possession, and, if I was feeling randy, a one-way ticket to somewhere nasty, like Buffalo.
The move there when you stick him into the plane is have one of those "I've Been To The Everglades!" Pins and ram it through his left nipple; right through his button-up beige shirt.
Were there anything left of him, he would have enough "rational reason" to board, and we would all be done with the problem.
I Help People.
Edited by Rich Engle, 09 September 2010 - 01:00 AM.