I myself have also taken a brief respite away from over-analyzing French New Wave cinema and studying the nuances of semiotic examinations of cultural misreadings to examine the text of my body and mind, considering all the factors that could turn me into a remorseless and misguided killer, toting guns into the hallowed halls of academia, showering the English department with a hail of bullets and shrapnel, immolating the extensive James Joyce rare books archive.

I would spare no one and nothing. With my steeled countenance, I would white out key passages in T. S. Eliot's original manuscript for The Wasteland. After this act of psychotic sacrilege I would move to the sacrosanct avant-garde classical composers library. With one fell swoop I would store seminal John Cage and Stockhausen vinyl horizontally, encouraging the eventual warping of the records. Ha! Where is your writing on the role of chance in modern music now, Mr. Cage?! Was it by chance I warped your records?! Do not believe you are free from my gargantuan rage Edgar Varese…you may claim that the modern composer refuses to die, buy try saying that when I shatter your original tape-splicing experiments from the 1940's. Sleep with one eye open La Monte Young, for your minimalist experiments will be for naught when my one singular bullet with become a symphony unto itself as it bores its way through your cranial bone and the soft, fibrous gray matter that resides underneath it. No more collaboration with Sonic Youth for you! Bwah ha ha!

My anger cannot be, will never be, quenched. Like a fire that engulfs the world in its horrible blaze, I move on to film department, cutting a swath through the cultural studies wing of the Popular Culture department. The French Noveau is the first to face my terrible wrath. Tearing like a crazed animal through the works of Renoir, Truffaut, and Godard, I show contempt for Contempt, I asphyxiate Breathless, and beat down The 400 Blows.

But that is not all, for right before me I see the leering face of Martin Scorsece's Taxi Driver. From the box Travis Bickle glares self-righteously through Mohawked head and mirrored glasses. A cool wind breezes over my body, causing a shutter that wracks my being to its very core. I see the mirror reflecting my existence and I stare empty-headed into the void. I face the amorphous fears which rise from the dark mists. I realize my own pretensions and bring the .44 to rest in my mouth cavity. I shut my eyes, a single breath escapes, and I hear the rushing of sound backwards, carrying back to the beginnings of time, the Big Bang in reverse, immensity at one point, and like that, like that I was gone.

The Philosophy department must breath a sigh of relief for their precious cultural critics were saved from my rampage. Lacan grins in deference to my actions.

I am a killer. And this is Sweeps Month. And this is the Season Finale. And this is humor. And this is a return to binary oppositions. Money. God. Power. This is important somehow.

I love you Andy Kaufman.