O Yale Man

O Yale man
Would it be all right if I groveled before you and
smeared myself with your feces,
Or would you prefer that I show by more subtle
word or sign
That you are my social and intellectual better,
O Yale man?

O Yale man
are your sophistication and wit the froth merely
Dancing atop the vastly deep of your
accomplishment,
And are you secretly amused at the pretentions
of others,
Secure in the cosseting knowledge that you are a
Yale man,
A quiet purring pleasure that you harbor
Like a slit-eyed Siamese nestled among your
intestinal coils (or between perhaps them and
your pancreas)
Ever humming up your innards, yes oh yes oh yes,
O Yale man?

For you,
O man with lip curled in sneer of Eli,
I wish that I could put into one bottle the
pussy juice
Of all the beautiful women I have slept with, and
brandish it in your face, bellowing,
‘These are drippings collected from the vaginas of
women who admired, were attracted to, and
brought to screaming orgasm by, me,
a non-Yale goer,
So much more full than your bottle,
O Yale man!’

I wish that I could dance on your grave,
O Yale man,
And someday shall, singing loud Yale songs in a
mocking and derisive manner
While you, with your flesh moldering and plopping
off of your Yale-degree-awarded bones like the
tenderest osso bucco,
Shall somehow be dimly aware of but powerless to
silence my belittlement of you and your precious
status-enhancing institution,
O Yale man!

And then, perhaps, O Yale man,
I shall have you exhumed by court order through
well-placed bribes,
And when your body has been wheeled into the
examining room and the indifferent attendants
have been paid off and withdrawn,
I shall rip the Phi Beta Kappa key from the stiff
fingers interlaced upon your chest
And shall use it to scoop out your rotting
eye-jelly and,
After wiping the key on your hair,
Shall climb onto the examining table and squat
over your head and shit into each eyehole,
and then descend and with the handle of the key
tamp the outbulging shit firmly into each eye socket
Filling it to the uttermost,
Leaving a Dairy Queen curl atop the protruding
excess,

And then I shall tell you I am considering
applying to Yale for a continuing-education
course in Yak-fucking,
And shall ask whether you as a Yale man consider
this one of the stronger parts of the curriculum,
And shall gaze at you staring shit-eyed at the ceiling,
hugging myself, smiling inly,
Pretending to wait for an answer that I know shall
never emerge from your shrivellips;
And shall it not be so,
O Yale man?

O Yale man,
Be it so!

- Ethan Coen (The Drunken Driver Has the Right of Way, 2001)