How I Learned to Stop Worrying and started to love James Joyce

This essay has two lies. One, I never stopped worrying about James Joyce. Two, I have never started to love him.In all truth, this essay has little to do with James Joyce.Actually, I must add that it has nothing to do with him whatsoever.This essay has nothing to do with various waterbodies of consciousness. It may in the end, have something to do with pseudo-nihilist literature practised by unnamed characters in the rubber monster movies of twentieth-century Japan.Ihope it has the same effect on your as Mothra and Godzilla had on Tokyo.

This essay is neither about Nora Barnacale nor her "sensual epistolary" correspondence with her husband or third wave feminist interpretations of her alter ego- Nora Joyce.However, I would like to mention that she thought, very correctly,that her husband wrote books that only her husband could read.Now, some of you would have begun to assume that I am a boor,culturally uncouth and probably uses literary masterpieces as litter for cats.But I can promise you

that its not true. First, cat litter usually has calcium bentonite. And since most paper is made of cellulose, its pointless to use James Joyce's books as cat litter.Second, I have no cats.These two observations, that flowed through my conscious about 10 seconds ago should convince you, that I do not use the books of that Irish drunk as cat litter.

There may be those of you, who believe that I am book burner.I have had several hair leveling episodes with my bunsen burner, but I defenitely dont burn books.In fact, I inspired no book burner and curiosity did not lead me to ask at what temperature, paper burnt. Though, I sometimes wonder, if I should know if the gods we worship are mortal. But,I digress.

Actually, I will digress. I find this strict conformity to one subject, is detrimental to my mental well being.This detriment makes itself apparent as a jelly like,sharp ooze.Most of this ooze, is from my disgust at our contemporary treatment of Al-Jabbr.Al-Jabbr, among other things,made gold from cabbage (and thus caused famine in germany),lent his name( for 89 dinars) to a vital weapon(algebra) in the fight against fourth grade super heros, created the Zebra (that too on a sunday) and wrote the instruction manuals for most of these achievements in a language that only he could read. Today, we call this langauge gibberish.You may all, by now have fiugured out that Joyce bashing is a strange attractor.For the object of maintaining subtlety, let me emphasize- Al jabbr wrote stuff only he coudl understannd. we called the gibberish. James Joyce wrote stuff only he could understand. We call them Ulysees,Dubliners and masterpieces.

Now, I must end. At the end, we all realize, that we are in the same place as we were in the beginning- in front of a comp. Some of you may rush the barricades, to nail me. But, Iwill tell you that they are no barricades. They were destroyed by Mothra and Godzilla's elder son, just yesterday- over who should get Iran's stockpile of NREU snacks(not really enriched uranium).

ps-dedicated to two physicists,A.Douglas,C.bergen,sixteen pairs of twin poodles and my old freind- count Duckula.