Rorschach Mumble

Yes, Good Morning. What’s that? What’re we mourning this time? Why, the afternoon, gone so soon. Very well, thank you and good night.

What? Maybe you’re not such a good knight, after all. Your chivalry matches my socks. I’m Amana Mission, enigmas wrapped in a riddle, on a mission to incite insight…and subvert the prevailing paradigm.

Who is she talking to? Hey, there’s a bunch of people out there, staring at us! Are we supposed to strip now? No, I think we’re going to present a doctoral dissertation. Wrong, we’re running for office. Empress of the Unimpressed!

Could y’all stifle? We’re here to deliver a sermon on the mons veneris. Excuse me, I’m sorry, some of my personalities are completely clueless.

Can we begin with a moment of silence for all the jokes that flatlined on the way to this microphone? Thank you.


All right! Now, before we get too intimate, I need to level with you. So I went to the clinic, and the test came back positive. Positive means good, right?

Well, the test came back positive-for DNA. Not everyone realizes DNA is an STD. But that’s exactly what’s going on. Deep thoughts.

Hi, I’m the snarky aspiring feminist comic who enjoys awkward innuendos about gynecology. If it “taint” awkward, I’m not involved.


Did I tell you that I discovered the clitoris? Or was it Atlantis that I discovered?

I know, everyone discovered the clitoris, and only most of them are wrong. That elusive love button, the jolly rancher, the epicenter of the earthquake. She waxes and wanes under many names, but few as clinically ghastly as the word “clitoris”.

It’s unclear exactly who deserves the blame for textbooks not calling it the Sweetness of Venus or the Isle of Innana, but I imagine it was someone who didn’t have one.


A number of men have claimed to discover the clitoris, one such being Italian anatomist Realdo Colombo. No, not that Columbo; this one was a detective of uncharted orgasms, in perpetual search of the “smoking trigger”.

What’s that? I can’t hear you, I’ve got a microphone in my ear. No, and not that one either. You’re thinking of Columbus, who discovered that India is right next to Jamaica.

Well, Christopher Columbus may or may not have discovered the clitoris at some point-I harbor some serious doubts, if you catch my drift-but if he had, he surely would have called it the “uterus”.


Okay, let’s just get this out of the way. Some people don’t know that Amana is short for “a monomaniac”. Except when it’s short for “a monotone”, “a moniker”, “a monosyllable”, or “a monologue”. Not that the monologues are ever short. But I digress.

Anyway, I like to consider myself a moderately considerate narcissist, so I prefer to practice my nasal-gazing in public. The nose knows! I’m the very model of the modern monomaniac.


Yes, I’m fixated on your grin. Go on. Grin all you want! Ah, Captivating.

Yes, a captive audience! Okay, bar the door! No one leaves until the rest of my squadron is released from the Smithsonian!

Hmm. Where were we? Oh yes. Captivating, all of you. Charmed, we’re sure.

Speaking of captivating… well, we don’t really like to call it “possession”, because demons are so unfairly demonized.

It might be fair, though, to say that we’re all playing host to a veritable rolodex of contentious and contradictory personae, an oddball assortment of stray reaction formations and unemployed social roles.

Pinning down my identity can be a little like playing whack-a-mole without a mallet. Just when I get a fix on who I might be at any given moment, reality goes AWOL and I’m someone else again. You never know who might “pop” up. Here comes everybody!


Okay, how many of you were born? Most of you, I see. Any pod-babies out there? Androids? Hatched in a feather-lined nest?

All right, if you were born, how many of you remember it? Really? What was the name of the stork who delivered you?


So, when Kegel discovered the clitoris; I’m mean, the antithesis-wait, no that’s Hegel-well, you see what I mean. Everyone’s so quick to grab credit for this or that discovery, but no one wants ownership of the ignorance which proceeded it.

You know what else gets my tubes in a knot? Fallopian tubes. Did Fallopio even have a pair of these tubes? No, I don’t believe so.

So why does he get credit for inventing them? Or discovering them, the way Columbus “discovered” the reach-around. These mapmakers are missing the iceberg for the tip!


Just the tip? That’s what Dr. Freeman said when he stuck the icepick in my eye!

Hi, I’m the somewhat psychotic surrealist mime who mumbles about Rorschach.

I’m sorry, did you say Rorschach Mumble? No? I must be thinking out loud again. I hope you didn’t hear what I was thinking about this jerk here.

What’s a Rorschach Mumble, you ask? Of course you do. A Rorschach Mumble is an auditory inkblot, an under-heard set of words that reflect preconceptions, often revealing underlying psychosis. Psycho, sis? Oh? Psycho? Who you calling psycho, bro?

No, I don’t care to disclose my diagnosis. It’s protected by attorney-client privilege. As my attorney, I advise myself to plead inanity.

Oh, hell, why deny it, if the straightjacket fits? So, stop me if you’ve hallucinated this one before. The basket case goes to the shrink and says, doc, I’m out of patience. Shrink says, so am I, your hour’s up.

Stop laughing at me! Yeah, I’m the oppositional defiant one. No, I’m not!


Oh my Heavens! Hello, is my personality on straight? Yes, I’m the square one. The status quotidian ordinaire. I’m uptight and really insecure about it.

I know, my insecurities are annoying. And rude. I don’t mean to be such a bitch, it’s just my personality. Besides, I’m strung out on laxatives.

Anyway, I happen to be a professional spontaneity planner. However, you’ll have to book your appointment a year in advance. Not that there’s so much demand, mind you, but I like to be thoroughly prepared for unexpected success.


Wait for it. Yeah, wait for it. Go on. I’ve got all day. I’m the passive-aggressive tidal wave. The reluctant Tsunami. No, that’s not a new personality; I’m just brainstorming.


Lately I’ve been doing temp work for the Decentralized Intelligence Agency. They haven’t assigned me yet, but I’m thinking of free-lancing. Free-lance intelligence, I think that’s a thing.

I’m currently available as a quintuple (counts on fingers) no, sextuple agent in several demilitarized dimensions across the conceptual realm. I’m the scatterbrained alien spy, and…oops! There goes my cover. (sheds shawl).


Oh, well, none of you were paying attention anyhow, right? (points) You weren’t. Neither were you. Were you?

Nothing to see here. Please ignore me. I’m the invisible one. What do you mean, you can see me? That’s just an illusion. Besides, I’m only invisible when no one’s looking. (Shrinks)

What’s the price of attention, anyway? How much does it actually cost? Will I be receiving an itemized bill at some point for all the lavish attention I’ve showered on frivolities? Can I pay with Kanye coins? Will it ruin my credit rating? Ha. Ha. Credit. Me. Rating.


I’ve got to give myself credit, though. I’ve been tirelessly campaigning to raise awareness and shine a light on the plight of the endangered rubber chicken. Yes, tirelessly, pounding pavement without a single tire, because using tires would be utterly hypocritical, under the circumstances. My rims are beat all to hell.

Anyhow, in case you didn’t know, rubber chickens are now featured on the endangered species list. Apparently the rubber interferes with their procreation, and comic poachers are an on-going threat. If we don’t take action now, there will be no rubber chickens left alive on Earth.

So, please, please donate to the Rubber Chicken Relief Fund. We accept filthy lucre and post-dated reality checks. Your contribution will help supply turkey basters to infertile rubber chickens located in all four corners of the globe. And only the corners. No where else, actually.

So take action now and donate to the Rubber Chicken Relief Fund. This has been a Pubic Cervix Announcement. Thank you, and may the forceps be with you.