Zizek came across very filthy.
He smelled like the soiled breeches of a street
bum
- and looked about as much.
We met briefly before the debate.
We greeted and shook hands.
But when I turned away, he struck with the
speed of a viper,
and stuck his moistened finger between my
glutes.
"What was that?"
-I asked.
He just kept drooling.
Was this the intellectual prison camp of the
neo-marxists?
I felt I had to buckle up,
and put my big boy frog hat on.
And I instinctively crossed my legs for the
rest of the encounter.
I had to stick wads of paper tissue up my
nose to combat the stench of my opponent.
I think he had eaten raw garlic and pickled
eggs as a scare tactic.
Zizek was an easy meal.
He was a buzzing fly over my pond,
and I had the sticky tongue.
This was the story of Cain and Abel manifest!
We were both doctors as it were.
But I felt like a heroic plague doctor,
out of place in the post-modern horde of ideologues,
providing the best known cures and care to an ill society.
During my lectures I like to speak directly
to members of the audience.
As I focus from one person to another,
I imagine each of them is Joe Rogan.
Joe is a nice man,
and very muscular.
He has a lingering scent of coffee and exotic herb.
Nothing like the beast Zizek!
This is the thirteenth rule:
Always, always keep a clean pair of underwear in a sealed bag.
 
This is a good place to stop,
my mind is getting fuzzy.
