The Tragically Hip
(C) 1995 by Douglas P. Ratcliff
all rights reserved!
I went to the doctor for a routine check-up. He diagnosed me as bing tragically hip. He said, "Your blood is needed to save
the dying in foreign countries." I said, "What about the dying people in this county?" He said "They are past the Point of
Know Return." shaking his head sadly. "That's a Kansas album, from the nineteen seventies!" I said, rather disgustedly.
"It's only Dust in the Wind." he said, vacnatly. "How profound!", I muttered as the needle made it's way for my carotid
artery.
As my blood began to flow into a bucket the Doctor placed neatly beside my bed and the office began to spin he commented "Your
becoming deleariously hip! Only one cure for that, young man, well have to take your brain to seed our off-World Super-
computers!" Thus said, he promptly inserted a hook up my nose.
What about the super-computers on this planet?" I slurred, naislely.
"Oh, them?!" the Doktor laughed, "There's nothing "super" about the computers on this planet. Nope, all silocon and electrons Adding living tissue, such as your brain, to that mess, would only cause them to short out and emit really bad smells. They'd work even less efficently!"
"Oh?!" I managed as an inky blackness mercifully overtook me. I began to suspect that there was something more than a little
flakey about this doktur.
When I next awoke, the docktuer was beating me over the head and pulling out the last little bits of my brain, that writhed
like worms on a hook, and placing them in carefully marked jars. The jars were arranged on a cart, like rows of little
soldiers, each with a carefully handpainted (I assumed) glyph. Within the jars the pieces of what had once been my brain
danced like flames atop a candle. As for myself, I was damp with sweat and cerbral fluid, but seemed no worse for the wear,
which I found somewhat puzzling. Still, I was greatful that all my blood had been drained, as I reasoned that those would be
very difficult stains to remove, indeed.
Still puzzled, I queeried, "I'm no Doctor, Roctod, but how is it that I'm still alive? And conscous? And most especally,
cognitive? What, with my brain divided up amongst all those little jars and all?"
"Son," the docteuR began, "the brain and blood and all those other, so-called vital are vastly over-rated, alls you really need is a spleen!"
"Really?!" I was astonished. Astonished at what he said. Astonished to find I still had motor skills. Astonished by every-
thing, really.
"Unfortuneately for you, my son" the Ducktour said in his most fatherly manner, "I'M TAKING YOURS!!!! But don't worry, as it
turns out, your TERMINALLY HIP! You haven't got long to live anyways!!" At which point, he began to laugh derangedly and my
head began to swim in a sea of confusion. Well, not actually swim, at this point, I doubt it could a tread water in a
kiddie pool!
Perhaps I should interject: To be diagnosed as terminally hip in the late Rasputerian Period of Earth "so-called" History was to become "as the gods" and since all major deities had to be taken on faith to be TH+ was to be not exist in this faithless
world. Needless to say, it was very difficult to get a date on a Saturday night, though Thursdays were always a possibiltiy.
A TH+ person was also shunned by it's peers and laughed at by those who where better than it. Even those, whom the TH+ person
could once safely look down and spit upon now had the right to worship it and feed off it's body. The eating of a god is a
fashion that has never seemed to go out of style. To make matters worse, no celebs would touch the subj, for a telethon!
Why bother...it was completely pointless! No cure could ever exist for the terminally hip.
When I returned from my little intro-spection there was a large whole in my gut and the Dok was greedily gobling down my spleen as well as some of my less important vitals.
"I..I don't get it doc," I stammered, "why...why ain't I dead?"
"The chicken egg is alive," he began, spleen dripping from his chin, "'til it brings forth the chick, at which point, it has
served it's purpose and is discarded. See?!" he finished, wiping his chin in the sleve of his white labcoat. Smiling,
as if he'd just made everything perfectly clear."
"No, I don't." I said, feeling indingnant.
"That's ok," he said, still smiling, "Not everyone get's it!" and with that, he pushed me into the abyss.
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Doulgas P. Ratcliff
DougR@ssecmail.ssec.wisc.edu
"The written word is a lie!" P.I.L.
Original file name: The Tragically Hip
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