Sal's Theories by Jason Earls / 2005 Every night Sal Hempton studied and wrote in his notebooks, working diligently on radical social theories. He'd pore over psychology and philosophy books, making notes the entire time, searching for just the right piece of lost wisdom to exploit and expand upon to save humanity from its vast amount of social ills. Sal hoped his ideas would make the world a better place some day, and he secretly hoped they'd make him a hero. If they ever did, he planned to plaster up pictures of his big gruesome face on billboards all over the country to make sure everyone knew was the man who had saved the world. When Sal would meet new people and they'd asked what he did in life, he would proudly proclaim he was a philosopher (even though what he practiced was actually sociology). He'd tell them he was working hard to save the entire human race. "And how do you plan to do that?" some would ask. Sal would grin and pontificate about his Bent Ladel Theory, his Slimy Drill Theory, his Dwarf In The Swamp Theory, his Twisted Locust Theory. The people would just chuckle and stop listening after hearing the silly titles, and Sal would stomp his feet and hiss at the laughter and lack of comment upon his work. Nevertheless, he still felt very important when he told people he was a philosopher. And Sal needed to feel important. During the day he worked as a high school janitor, and we all know how evil some high school students can be. A few of the kids would tease poor Sal every day. They would laugh and taunt him unmercifully as they watched him dump garbage cans filled with their candy wrappers and pop bottles. They would badger him as he mopped up their vomit and feces from the school cafeteria floor. So every afternoon after enduring the harassment, Sal would go home and his pain and resentment and hell-scorching anger would rise to the surface of his mind and almost explode into Satanic violence. But he would hold it all in, sit on his couch, light big joints and open numerous cans of beer while watching four or five hours of mindless television. Then he would take out his notebooks, flip through his philosophy and psychology books and jot down his rants and tirades, letting his negativity and angst and soul-burning hatred push him on toward his inevitable greatness. Lately, Sal had been concentrating on theories of education. He thought if he could develop a better system of pedagogy and get it adopted by the Board of Education, the children of the future wouldn't be so hateful and inclined to torture all the poor janitors of the world. He filled notebook after notebook, studied books on education, talked and ranted to himself in the mirror for hours, worked to combine his Bent Ladel Theory and Dwarf in the Swamp Theory and all his other theories and apply them to the current educational problems. Finally the big day arrived. After more than fifteen years of indefatigable brain toil and immense suffering, Sal made the final revisions and put the finishing touches on his magnum opus. He withdrew his life's savings from Humpsteader National Bank, toted his manuscript to the Post Office, and spent all his money on postage, mailing off his 1,937-page treatise to several major universities, psychological institutions, and a plethora of government agencies. Then he waited. And dreamt of the big time. Oh God, did Sal ever dream. He dreamt of big beautiful brunettes screaming his name out on Main Street and running toward him pulling their pants down. He dreamt of winning the Nobel Prize and seeing his name in all the fancy New York newspapers. He dreamt of being interviewed by a famous talk show host and biting off their sarcastic lips and sewing them to his forehead. He dreamt of being invited to sing "I Want To Hold Your Hand" on American Idol and dancing with Bobby Brown. He dreamt of shouting his own name so loud it would burn itself into the shadowy wrinkles of space-time. He dreamt of wired neurological tongues licking him from head to toe, and dreamt of sucking on the intestines of psychoactive worms to hallucinate out even wilder sociological theories. But eight months passed and Sal never heard a single word from any of the institutions concerning his treatise. His heart started to break. Then one morning, as he was getting on his bicycle to ride to work, an ambulance and three police cars raced down his street. Their loud sirens caused Sal to cover up his pointy ears. The vehicles stopped in front of his house and ten jack-booted thugs in full riot gear tackled him to the ground. Sal's lips scooped up a huge mouthful of dirt. The men wrapped him in a strait jacket and drove him to the airport. He was flown to a mental institution in New York City where they had a special padded cell waiting especially for him. They threw Sal Hempton inside, locked the door, and never mentioned his name again. And the high school where Sal worked was forced to find another janitor; and the students tortured that poor bastard even worse than they did Sal. -end-