/lit/ - Literature

On forty-five, I was watching this show about a brain in a vat that was given a frankenstein-ish body cobbled together from a bunch of corpses. Apparently it’s fully functional, because, there’s like a whole picaresque sub-plot involving this brain in a vat being real cavalier with his body and finances, fucking the finest, gold-plated escort-pieces, with wanton disregard for safety or emotional sensitivity. Like after he finishes, (plot-hole: genetic inheritance of a brain in a vat), he jumps off the bed, fully naked, like the sick sex- fiend he is, and runs across the hall to the next hotel-room.
At this point I heard my dad in the bathroom, trying to hang himself from our shower curtain rod with a toilet-chain. When I finally got back to the show, this brain was laying intensive care, his fishbowl hooked up to all kinds of electrodes, a team of white coated observers, looking on, clicking their tongues against the roofs of their mouths,
Regretfully, but also somewhat reproachfully, telling his stiff upper-lipped entourage:
“It was just a mild case of crab-louse that spread to the inclosure of his bowl”
“and drowned in his cerebrospinal fluid”
“...We think it caused the infection”
“It is our opinion that it definitely caused the infection”
The last shot is a slow-zoom into the bowl. Little black specks orbit the brain like dying star, the doctor pulls a sheet up, and the picture fades to black.

I was like: what the fuck?