Changing The World.

by Fielding Goodfellow

Every now and then, as the scheme of things moves quietly along on its merry way,  a switch turns on in the cosmic consciousness giving rise to yet another infestation of sociopaths with the power to charm, and insanely bad haircuts. The universe shudders at their collective stupidity, as they rise from the primordial ooze to positions of leadership, wandering around in the dark hopelessly looking for the switch to turn on the lights. Long thought to be products of in breeding, these uber morons, created in what was left of a relatively thin gene pool, open up the doors of deceit, secrecy and a septic tank full of other bullshit, while closing all of the windows making it impossible to air out the stench. In the days when I engaged in protests against the corrupt establishment, fueled by assorted pills and potions and bare breasted co-eds, we marched for social justice and human rights, steadfast in our cause to change the world. I had always walked and talked the way of a radical political activist, but as I learned through years and years of psychotherapy, I was only really in it for the nudity.

The pressures of trying to change the world, if only in a small way, were immense. Organizers of protests met in secret, plotting their agenda and creating memorable slogans that would entice the general public to join the cause. There wasn’t enough time to join every one of them, so the process of selecting the cause that mattered most was arduous and painstaking. There were protests for longer library hours, better pay for teaching assistants, and lower food costs on campus, none of which appealed to any of my sensibilities. There were demonstrations for racial equality, and social justice, which tweaked my interest, until I saw the notice for an upcoming event sponsored by Women For Freedom Of Choice. Their mandate, seemingly pro abortion, was in reality nothing more than a woman’s right to wander around topless. I had always been a supporter of topless women, and found my cause.

Surprisingly, these women, protesting the societal norm that women must keep their shorts on, were all wearing shirts at the meeting I attended. Strange really, I mean the pro drug protesters were all getting shit faced at their meetings! I sat quietly in the back of the Cock & Bull Tavern as the apparent leaders of the movement laid out their strategy. The plan was to march to the administration offices, and deliver their message from the courtyard in front. There were speakers, and a band had been arranged. It all sounded wonderfully uplifting, but I was beginning to doubt the groups commitment to the cause. Not one word was mentioned about shirt removal. Regardless, I joined the cause, presumably with the hope and prayers that on the day of the protest, these 20 year old breasts would be allowed to come out and say hello.

When D Day arrived, I waited patiently at the starting place. Small groups of women arrived a few at a time, and began the selection of signs they would carry, and organized themselves in marching groups. Once everyone was there, and the organizers were about to begin the long march to the administration offices, every single woman present removed her top, revealed a collection of breasts, of assorted color, size and shape, that even 40 years later is still clearly etched in my brain. There were tits every where, as far as the eye could see. A veritable sea of tits, that moved and with gentle precision, like waves slowly rolling into to shore, and then rolling out again only to repeat this process over and over again until the end of time. Not to be an outsider, I removed my shirt as well, and off we went to demand the right of women to expose their breasts whenever and where ever the mood struck them. For me, well, I hoped that the mood was going to strike constantly., if only to make a point.

As we moved along past the Ross Building, I found myself staring, well more like ogling the spectacular smorgasbord of silicon free boobs that were dancing all around me. The march itself was difficult, as I had to stop and adjust the erect soldier in my pants who was now standing at attention and desperately trying to salute. There were these 2 girls, beside me as we marched, identical twin sisters, who were seniors, completing thier degress in music. Melanie was a violinist, while Marnie played the cello. The thought of Marnie sitting with that instrument between her open thighs while topless, had me right on the cusp of an emotional orgasm. I told her I would love to hear her play, and she invited me to watch her and Melanie practice their craft later that evening.

At the courtyard, the chants of catchy slogans began in earnest, with ‘Look At This, They’re Just Tits’, ‘Free The Breasts’, and ‘My Tits, My Decision”. I was in total agreement, I mean breasts should be set free, and I truly believed that if a woman wanted to show me her tits, she has the God given right to do so. What idiot would deny that very basic human right? Not me. Most importantly though, I did look at them, and they were indeed just tits. Nothing more. Just wonderfully, perfect tits. Hundreds of them. And being fucked up on peyote and a shot or two of Tequila, they were everywhere, smiling at their new found freedom, gloriously free, and I noticed that they all seemed to move in perfect unison, synchronized if you will. A crowd had gathered around the protest, which seemed to make the demonstration appear much larger that it actually was, but it was evident that the predominantly male observers, and perhaps a few lesbians as well, were, much like me, only there for the tits.

I walked with Melanie & Marnie back to the dorm room they shared to enjoy the rehearsal. They were still topless, and remained that way all the to their room. I offered them some peyote and they eagerly accepted. Melanie stood with her violin perched on her left shoulder, as Marnie sat in a chair, legs spread to permit the giant instrument space, while the neck of the cello ran up her torso and settled quite peacefully directly between her boobs. They played something I had never heard before, and then followed it up with a rousing rendition of ELO’s ‘Showdown’. It was brilliant. I spent the rest of the evening with them, listening to and talking about music, getting messed up and enjoying each others’ company. They were amazing, astonishingly beautiful, complete with short skirts, knee high boots, absolutely no inhibitions, and even less of a gag reflex. I visited with them often, up until their graduation, and we continued to free our minds, and their boobs whenever we had the opportunity.

I gave up my social protesting, I mean it seemed to me that I didn’t give a shit about much, other than women, music and drugs. Many years later however, I fell into the cruelty to animal protesting, and have been a supporter of this movement since. It is worth noting, that the majority of the people involved in my local group are women and so, I will be suggesting that at our next demonstration, purely in order to garner significant attention, we should all march topless. It is currently being taken under advisement.

 

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The Freud That Was Sherlock Holmes

 

Here at the Institute of Psychofictional Studies, no stone is left unturned in our search for the truth. After 10 years of intensive research, Dr. Guillermo Montoya, esteemed tenured Professor and head coach of the women’s nude hacky sack and lap dancing team has uncovered evidence to support his hypothesis that Sherlock Holmes was not a fictional character, but rather the alter ego of Sigmund Freud.

According to Montoya, Freud, an emotionally weak buffoon, had, in his cocaine induced dreams, created the persona of Holmes, genius detective, who epitomized all that Freud knew he could never be.  As evidentiary proof, Montoya points out that there is not a single instance in which Holmes & Freud were seen together,  and postulates that Freud  revealed his dreams to Conan Doyle over the course of a long weekend, when the two men met at Reichenbach Falls in the Swiss Alps during the summer of 1893. Freud was so captivated by his alter ego, that he had named him Sure Luck, a reference to his own deductive reasoning prowess, and certainly he would have shared that with Conan Doyle.

Montoya has suggested that many elements of the Holmes stories were simply attempts by Freud to deal with his own personal anxieties and ‘meshugas’.  According to the research, Moriarty is the embodiment of Freud’s father Jacob, a cold, distant and emotionally disturbed man, while Watson, Holmes’ trusted protector and blindly supportive adviser, is in fact Freud’s mother, Amelia. It is not without possibility then that Holmes’ estranged siblings, with their ridiculously inane given names, are the characterizations of Freud’s own siblings, towards whom he felt great animosity, and the discovery of sibling rivalry.

Montoya and his team of Psychofictional researchers spent hundreds of hours interviewing family members of Freud and Conan Doyle, and it was uncovered, though never recorded,  that Holmes was freakishly fond of cats, and had taken in many strays during his illustrious career. Montoya states it is more than mere coincidence then, that Freud had an obsessive penchant for pussies himself. To further illustrate this , the research suggests that the numerous images of valleys, crypts, tunnels, and caves in the Sherlock Holmes tales, can be identified as vaginal openings, symbolizing Freud’s unsuccessful attempts to slip into his mother’s vagina, demonstrating a significant Oedipal complex. Montoya also theorizes that Irene Adler, Holmes’ love interest in ‘A Scandal In Bohemia’, who he could never quite get over, is representative of Freud’s beloved sister Anna, whom he desperately wanted, but could never have. In a final stroke of genius, Montoya identifies Holmes’ constant handling of his violin, as Freud’s  struggle with penis envy, and chronic masturbation.

Providing a fresh perspective into the two minds of one great man, the results of this ground breaking research are due to be published in the prestigious  Frostbite Falls Journal of Psychofiction and Melon Artistry. Montoya has indicated that while he views this as his crowning academic achievement, he is set to embark on an in-depth investigation in order to prove his theory, that Natasha Fatale, over bearing shrew and partner of Boris Badenov, is in actuality, the cross dressing Bullwinkle Moose at the infamous Wossamotta U.