Suggested Audio Candy:
 Eminem “Brain Damage”
 Does It Offend You, Yeah? “Attack of The 60 ft Lesbian Octopus”
 Skrillex “Scary Monsters And Nice Sprites”
People often comment on their curiosity over what actually goes on inside my head. If I could supply a definitive answer than I’d be either lying straight or speculating wildly as, after nearly forty years in the same shell, I’m still none the wiser. Indeed every forage into my cerebrum tends to throw up more questions than answers. I could possibly vouch for around half of my mind’s whereabouts but, as for the remainder, well let’s just say it has been A.W.O.L. for some time. By that I don’t mean that it’s festering beyond enemy lines in some poky P.O.W. camp being water tortured. You could send in The Dirty Dozen and I can tell you now that they’d be coming back empty-handed.
It has gone and done a Salman Rushdie, scarpered with the loot, and is likely shacked up in some Colombian Cartel headquarters making C4 from popping candy and pipe cleaners as we speak. Rushdie, of course, made the dicey decision of scribing The Satanic Verses and earning himself overnight pariah status. Now that’s controversy; we’re not talking Beyoncé releasing a surprise album overnight via the web controversy, this is more the where did the other Wachowski brother get to strain of controversy. He made a whole religion wave their fists furiously then ducked his head down like Rocky Dennis at a rifle range. One puff of shisha and Salman was nothing more than folklore.
The other 50% of my cerebral cortex is actually a little like folklore. It won’t ever be spotted dressing down in old jogging bottoms and a hooded top, attempting to live a regular existence, while dodging the swarms of poisonous paparazzi congregating outside its conservatory. No, this is far too potent a weapon of mass destruction to just let it off the leash like Brewster with his millions. My own experience with the other 50% would suggest that it was transported in an armored vehicle, driven by none other than Salman Rushdie, to a top-secret underground facility in Sierra Leone. I would also imagine it abides to a strict regime of daily exercise compliments of Dr Kawasaki and watches old Gene Kelly movies in a silk paisley-print negligee during its downtime. Well, it’s alright for some isn’t it? While it is out there dabbling in a spot of espionage, the other poor 50% is at home, ironing towering piles of corduroy trousers and eating supper alone.
Alright, no more wrangling of wilted waffle, it is high time we locate this partisan. While the responsible 50% is growing increasingly frustrated attempting to kick the soda can like Swayze, his supposed team buddy is out there shafting his widow in her ass funnel and planning to spend her savings. It’s just not fair goddamnit. There has to be a solution but, if there is, then I’m certainly no closer to finding it. I’m clueless, all Marpled out, playing rummy with Peter Falk. At times like these, it is necessary for extreme measures and all this talk of Columbo has got me to thinking. What does one do when they suspect their wife is cheating with the next door neighbor’s llama? That’s right, they hire themselves a private dick and get to the bottom of it. Problem is, my wallet is currently thinner than Gandhi after Ramadan, and that means David and Maddie are out of the question.
Fortunately, I have come up with a solution and, dare I say, I think I may have hit pay dirt. Have you ever heard of The Bonus Brain Hypothesis? If the answer is yes then you’re full of baloney as I just invented that shit like Edison. Bonus Brain is a slither of additional lobe which exists in a sub-compartment off to the side of the cerebellum. Should an entire 100% of your brain fail to solve a riddle then it is called into play. Think of the additional armor shards in Doom and you’re in the right ball park. While Bonus Brain’s energy depletes faster than its more-rounded compatriot, when push comes to shove, it rolls up its sleeves and grinds the gears for the team.
Problem is, it’s more Bill Cosby than Denzel Washington. It blathers on, with no concept of time diminishing around it, in its snug lamb wool pullover (a Cosby sweater no less) emblazoned with an embroidered reindeer. It beats around the bush somewhat. I don’t feel entirely comforted by the prospects of Bonus Brain deciphering this Da Vinci Code as a regular Rubix cube makes it downright furious. However, should it team up with the stay-at-home 50%, then maybe together they can crack the case. Confused yet? Grab yourself a Bonus Brain and it will all make sense. Basically, after conducting extensive research for the past few months in an off-shore silo, I have learned exactly how the brain works. Alright, not quite exactly, it’s an approximate science this neuro business. Let’s just say, the brain ain’t so mysterious.
What is it they say? To get inside the animal one must first become said animal. Something like that anyhoots. After three years of work-related stress, topped off with a bout of clinical depression, I have learned how to travel within myself. It was fun for a while, particularly the alimentary canal, those were some white water rapids I tell you. However, after several weeks of boxing my tonsils, I grew tired and needed a fresh challenge. It seemed like a no-brainer to me. Time to go topside. I took the express elevator to the uppermost floor and hung out with the neurons and I’m bloody glad I did. I now understand a little more about how the brain works, how it processes data, and the kind of firewall it implements to prevent hacking.
From what I can gather, my brain comprises two rival halves. On one side of the fence is The Drab Half, playing by the rules and never once farting on an escalator when a family of four are ascending behind. Of the two fiddies, this one doesn’t get out much, as it is too busy rallying those synapses and keeping the whole operation from capitulating. Without this grafting slab of cerebral goo, I would likely be stopping right now to go and receive my third round of bi-daily shock treatment. While I’m grateful for this steady Freddie for going round all eighteen holes in par, I find the lack of hole-in-ones rather disparaging. It’s all so blah and ever so slightly meh.
So onto The Rogue Half. It may be troublesome tracking this devious prankster down but, every time I call off the search and place the Crimson Quill on parchment, it makes an appearance. If my prose resembles the blathering of a madman on occasion then, please don’t thank me, save all the kisses for our subject. I have considered throwing some reigns over it and attempting to harness its majestic prowess, work with it to create distilled plutonium. The problem is that I don’t wish to startle it as, should I ruffle its feathers, then it’s just me and The Drab Half again. Like a wild animal, it is better left to roam freely, and let nature take its course.
My persistent concern has been that the two halves of my brain just don’t see lobe to lobe. Their incessant bickering started to become tiresome and it felt like being trapped in the Big Brother house with an accountant and a wakeboarding wiccan. Eventually, I could take no more and that is where The Bonus Brain Hypothesis comes into play my friends and countrymen. Twenty-five additional percent is added incentive to use your head. I was never like the other kids in class and my mind doesn’t process data in a traditional manner. It turns out that I have spent my entire life taking notes without even being aware. Unbeknownst to me, I’ve been busy cramming as many files into the archives as I possibly can without security being called and it’s all been under lock and key since around the time of my first pubic spurt.
When I decided to create a pseudonym, I placed my nickel in the one-armed-bandit and prepared for the random name generator. To my immense satisfaction, The Keeper of The Crimson Quill was spat back at me. It’s all blind luck really and, had I not pushed in front of the old guy with club foot, then I would likely now be known as Cock Donkey Clive. I was as pleased as punch with my new alter ego and things were about to get more bubblicious. When you enter into The Pseudonym Tryst, you are informed of certain exclusive perks not in the public domain. I was presented with three options and I shall bullet point them for you for ease of perusal. You can thank The Drab Half and its organizational skills for this one.
- Seven packets of foil packed potato chips and a free pedicure at Pammy’s Parlor.
- The chance to throw nineteen javelins at Justin Bieber while he trampolines fifty yards away.
- Ten years free hire of Bonus Brain. Terms and conditions may apply.
It was a tough call but I’ve never thrown a javelin in my life and, should I fail to penetrate Bieber on nineteen separate occasions, I’d be left looking at his smug face oscillating at a distance while he reminds me that I just said I would like to penetrate Bieber. It just didn’t seem worth the potential heartbreak so I plumped for Bonus Brain instead and I’m rather glad I did too. While the sparring fiddies aren’t known for their ability to work together, occasionally they reconcile and commence uploading their findings. Meanwhile, Bonus Brain sits in the sidecar, chomping on a Cuban, with its collar up.
Basically, should the Crimson Quill be flowing with particular tenacity one day then, chances are, it has something to do with Bonus Brain. The Drab Half provides the peas and carrots, while The Rogue Half fires up the popcorn. Both do their job and I’m glad they can find the time in their hectic schedules to put in a shift. However, any moments of ingenuity come courtesy of Bonus Brain. Basically, what I’m saying is this: create yourself a pseudonym and you too will be invited into this select club. We’re all mad as hatters, all writers are, and that’s what makes us cool to hang out with. While others are sitting around playing Sudoku on their smart phones, we’re riding past on magic carpets being fed Turkish Delight by belly dancers. Join us. Okay, now I’m sounding like a cultist. How’s about this one instead. Try it… you may like it.