Case History #1 from The Karmic Adjustment Bureau files:
by Crabby McGrouchpants
Bartleby Academy Alumni/ae Class Notes
Please use this Class Notes system to post personal news and announcements about you, your family and other alumni/ae you may have seen in your travels.
From: C. J. Snidely, 1990
Glum News: A report on the death of a member of the class of 1990
It is with much sadness and deep regret that I report to all my fellow Academes that one of our own, Viko Lunatic, Class of 1990, has committed suicide in a rather horrific and spectactular manner.
Viko, it seems, had long been laboring at Bain & Co. in Dallas, TX, the consulting corporation he sold his soul to out of the desperation of having nothing better to do with himself upon graduation from his fourth-choice college in 1994. Viko's career at Bain was plagued with problems from the get-go, when he started his internment there on the wrong foot by immediately mounting an unsuccessful and confusing-to-others campaign to change the corporation name from "Bain & Co." to "Jain & Co."
Alas, outstanding childhood issues apparently die hard for those with weak wills. Word has it that in the long, rambling, and oft-intelligble 617-page suicide note Viko left, he made repeated references to his Academy-career-long resentment of Vipul Hussein (also class of '90), whom Viko typified as having attained the (to him ) veritable Holy Grail of managing to be both "Indian" and "cool" (i.e., capable of any level of social intercourse above simply ordering sandwiches from common laborers ), which thus made Viko feel "lacking" in comparison.
Emblematic of Viko's life-long pettiness and emptiness inside was his marriage to a "fellow Indian" former cheerleader named Misha [whose name was alternately spelled "Meisha" or "Geisha" at various points in Viko's "goodbye, cruel world!" salvo] — who, for her part, apparently found Viko to be quite a catch (at least, initially ) on the basis of little more than his parents' country of origin (and, of course, his big fat wallet ).
Unfortunately — as Misha discovered on their wedding night, when the newly-allied couple attempted to consummate their marriage via the traditional "hole in the sheet" method — Viko, indecisive from the first, had never matured much beyond the default fetus stage of female into a full-grown male body, and therefore had notsomuch a good-sized penis dangling over his mite nutsack but a slightly-enlarged clitoris, instead.
Needless to say, Misha spent the rest of the night being soaked in Viko's fervently-expelled sweat from above, but to no avail. Poor Misha couldn't even tell if she had had sex or not, by night's end!
Weeks passed, turning into months and then years, and Misha was still unable to report to her friends at work if she even HAD a sex life to speak of, let alone one worth commenting on as good, bad or indifferent.
Marital matters were not helped any by Misha's taking to wearing one of those late-90's BUST Magazine "Is it in yet?" T-shirts around the house and glaring at poor Viko at every given opportunity — but, again, to no avail. Those chemically-loaded "Penis Enlarger" pills Viko had grudgingly ordered off the Internet were not, it seems, doing the trick. If anything, they seemed to make him more surly and irritable, prone to snap at her for failing to recognize the "importance" of such dubious distinctions as how a $300 coffee maker was for "slackers" while the $500 model was more fitting to a member of the "corporate elite."
Misha wasn't buying it — and as the greatest regret of Viko's current incarnation was "chickening out" or his leap from the top of one of the buildings in Albany's Egg Plaza the summer after 8th grade (and opting, instead, for a "pity me, save me" fake suicide attempt in his parent's mansion in Loudonville ), he felt the time had come at last to do the deed.
"Nobody likes me," he averred in his suicide note (79 times, in fact — and oft-misspelled, at that! ). "I feel the same sort of fear creeping back as when I read The Crying of Lot 49, in college, or Wuthering Heights, long before that. It seems like a lifetime ago by now . . . but, I guess there are some things you can't escape!"
These two sentences stand out in the "document" not so much for their content per se as for their legibility and syntactical coherence. The rest of the rambling missive apparently dwelt solely in the realm of the personally-obsessive in a manner so fixated as to be completely incomprehensible to others: included were, for some reason, reviews of long-forgotten commercials from the 80's and 90's (done up: "like Godard!") which begin and end abruptly with no apparent stimuli either way; page after page of penis drawings of such explicitness, variety, and depth of feeling as to make the Jonah Hill character's 6th grade etchings in Superbad look like a passing fancy at best; and start-again, stop-again storyboards for a planned 12-hour remake of Pier Paolo Pasolini's Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom, with Viko as the intended director, writer, and star, (including a particularly vivid rendering of his plans to remake the, uh, "re-digestion" scene).
Long story short, Viko finally succeeded in offing himself by placing the business end of a .38-gauge shotgun in his mouth, and pulling the trigger with his left big toe.
Needless to say, wife Misha was quite distressed to happen upon the baleful scene that night when she came home from work. It appears the mess from Viko's exploded "knowledge box" had covered not only the wallpaper nearby, but the shag carpet and adjoining paintings! Poor Misha had to spend half an hour on her cell phone trying to raise the maid to clean up the mess (you try getting the hired help very quickly on their off hours! ).
Worse still, Viko had not considerately done the deed downstairs in the living room or (God forbid!) in the not-yet reupholstered basement, but, rather, right in front of the master bedroom/bathroom area on the second floor! The long-suffering Misha had to all-but-vault over Viko's headless carcass every time she wanted to venture into the loo to take a whiz!
Viko leaves behind a "dippy" father, a "dotty" mother, a bewildered sister, and likely some sort of pets or offspring [which I could have taken the time & trouble to look up — but, really, who cares?].
Mikey "B.S." Premsagarbage (who some Academy alum may remember from the St. Ignatius Middle School's class of 1986), and his wife, the former-prostitute turned white-female-rapper Horne E. Dogg, will be carrying out their respective duties in fulfillment of Mikey's chosen sole life purpose of validating Viko's presence in any and all social circles which happen to be available, just 'cause Mikey said so [Don't ask. I have no idea "why," either. But, there it is. — ed.], by having Viko's "wake" at Mikey's house, somewhere in the suburbs of some city in Vermont.
Mikey's dog, Flaccid, will be on hand to perform "Stupid Pet Tricks" to lighten the mood of the rather somber affair (albeit in a manner consistent with the late Viko's intelligence quotient).
On a final note, residents of Dallas, TX, where Viko had been taking up space, have been reported in local papers as noting they've been breathing a bit easier in the past few days, for some reason. Conjecture on the street is that the death of greedy, soul-sucking Viko has freed up a fair amount of oxygen for others to share in his absence, and those residents of that great state and former republic are now reaping the benefits of Viko's self-immolation most immediately.
Thanks, Viko . . . you're too kind!
REPORTED BY: Chris Would (Class of 1990) Chicago, IL