She takes off her warplane costume and, before going back to her husband, says to me: "Have you ever wondered, if I put my thumb and index finger together, like this, how long it would take for these two fingers to stay together forever?" 

I reproduce the gesture. Thumb against index finger. I try to imagine that I stay like that for twenty years. 


Will the skin of the fingers eventually fuse together and form a single skin surface? Should I bet on fifty years? If the experiment succeeds, will I become famous? If I become famous, will I dare to speak publicly about the person who inspired me to do this? Won't the journalists end up harassing me? Shouldn't I go around the world, with my hand locked in a jar of Vaseline, to show my prowess in university circuses? 


Won't the one who inspired me to make this gesture come back, dressed as a warplane or a locomotive, ready to do anything to break the gesture that made me famous?


A man goes to a psychologist because he sees miniature lesbians everywhere. The psychologist tells him about his latest book "How to Pick Up God in a Week." The title is ironic, of course. "Mind you, I could become famous," says the psychologist, "if I killed myself at the right time in my career." The psychologist signs a copy. He pulls a slimy rogue-like object from his drawer. "Here, eat this and you'll feel better." The man hesitates, disgusted. He decides to give it a try. The psychologist stops him. "Someone tells you to eat shit and you eat shit?" The man wants to leave. He wanted to talk about his miniature lesbians. The doctor's assistant pops up, wearing a wrestler's mask. She immobilizes him. "You must go to a cemetery," says the psychologist, "and face a crow with your bare hands. This will cure you of your hallucinations." When he arrives in the cemetery, he indeed spots a huge crow. But a group of monks invites him to drink sake. He gets drunk and the monks tell him about the miniature gay demons that inhabit Nature.