Dr. Leary Sample Poetry #2

I know, I know, I'm wwwwaaaaayyyy behind. Lately I've been devoting my time to working on my second book, "Demontastic", and I've neglected the S.S. Liberace. Stick with me here, Jean Sprat's story will be told. In the mean time, here is some lovely poetry by our dear Dr. Leary.

-Ryan Robbins

Poetry by Dr. Timothy Leary XII

Essence of the Haiku

One two three four five,
I'm trying to make this rhyme
In five – seven – five


Stuck in a bathroom in Starbucks at Outpost Larry – Curly – Moe
#1

The graffiti says
Call here if you want a lay,
Or just a play date

Stuck in a Bathroom in Starbucks at Outpost Larry – Curly – Moe
#2

Flush – flush goes the bowl
Down and down into the hole
Where to no one knows.


Haiku #122

It is not a crime
To drink coke and turpentine
With a slice of lime.


Haiku #143

Love is a long road
When her face looks like a goat
And feet like a toad's


Flashback to the time when I was stuck in a bathroom in Starbucks at Outpost Larry – Curly – Moe

The head as my bed,
Where many defecated.
I wish I was dead.

A note from your exalted author, Ryan Robbins

I know, I know...it's been some time since the last entry of the S.S. Liberace, and I left you hanging with the red-headed Yo-Yo Ma...but hey, I've got to take a break sometime. Think of it as a television show, and this is the cliff hanger of season one. Now you've got to wait a while before you can read the conclusion and will ultimately be disappointed because I have failed to live up to expectations - just like Fox TV.

Until then, I'm going to enjoy my little summer break and spend some time with my significant other. As J-Lud would put it..."I'm gonna be crunchin' with my Betty while slappin' back a forty. If da pad's a rockin', come on in, cuz I'm a freak like that..." or something along those lines.

See you September 1st bee-atch!

Jean Sprat in Wonderland, Part 1/4

Personal Log. Commodore's Liaison, Jean Sprat. 05.08.3001

(Part 1)

I go over the last few days and I want to vomit. It hasn't happened yet. After running to the bathroom twice now, I've only come away with the nasty taste of acid reflux. Surely, someday, when I look back on the events that took place, I'll wonder if I didn't just run my head into the wall a dozen times or so and imagined the whole thing in some sort of comatose delirium. It's all just so bizarre and unbelievable it actually makes more sense that I was abducted and fed false memories. There are certainly species in the universe that have such abilities. Maybe I was out partying too hard with Dr. Leary. I'm sure there is a bevy of noxious fumes at Dr. Leary's disposal that could make me hallucinate for several days.

It all started at Regina Five. The Slurs, after colliding with us and pulverizing our engines, needed to tow us into space dock in order to repair the Liberace. Regina Five wouldn't have been my first choice, but it was the closest. The space dock is quite infamous for its ill repute ever since the Guinness Book of Universal Records honored Regina Five for most punctured eardrums due to interspecies misunderstandings of anatomy.

Luckily, I had found in a remote section on level five, a quaint little cafe and pastry shop. The owner was a Pendore-bat, a species known for its incessant and sometimes insufferable optimism. Of course, only a Pendore-bat would set up a cafe in Regina Five. I heard Starbucks tried to franchise there, but the entire shop was jettisoned into space by a customer with levitation abilities who had explicitly asked for a latte with skim milk and received whole.

I was sitting, enjoying a cup of vermouth mocha and a wonderful crumb cake when I happened to catch sight of a man entering the cafe. Right at that moment I was taking a sip, and I thought for sure I was going to snort mocha.

It couldn't be, I thought. It's impossible. For one, I thought I had imagined the whole thing before. For another, what were the odds that I would find him here in a remote cafe on Regina Five of all places?

There he was, though. The same face, the same red hair, the same eyes that had stared down upon me several years ago. It was the only face that I could remember – the last face I saw before waking up and realizing that I was no longer a woman, but had been changed into a man.

There, unmistakably, was the red-headed Yo-Yo Ma.

Getting to Know the Crew, Jean Sprat

Official Transcript of Interview with 1st Mate Jean Sprat.

While serving as 1st Mate on the Battle Cruiser, Wendigo under the command of Admiral Jonathan Ludwig Sr., 1st Mate Jean Sprat was attacked on an away mission to Aldercott. Eighteen days later a search crew found her shuttle adrift in space and an unconscious male aboard. That male after DNA testing was determined to be Jean Sprat.

Here is Jean Sprat's official interview following that event.

Interviewer: Is it true that you used to be female?

Sprat: Yes.

Interviewer: And now you're male?

Sprat: Isn't that obvious?

Interviewer: Right. Do you know how this mishap occurred?

Sprat: Mishap? A broken leg is a mishap. A fender-bender is a mishap. I have a f*&$ing d#@k, you moron.

Interviewer: Yes, I'm sorry. We're just curious how it happened.

Sprat: How the hell should I know? All I remember is being attacked and losing consciousness during the firefight. I woke up only once before I was rescued and I'm pretty sure I was drugged.

Interviewer: What did you see when you woke up?

Sprat: Nothing important.

Interviewer: Just describe what you saw.

Sprat: Look, this may sound crazy, but I swear I saw the original Yo-Yo Ma – not that cyborg hack that plays for the Pluto orchestra. He had red hair and he was standing over me holding a cello made out of spiral pasta. He was completely naked, and I found it very odd that he didn't have any genitalia. Incidentally he was a natural red head.

Interviewer: Yo-Yo Ma?

Sprat: Look, I said I was probably drugged you dip-s@#t. Why are we here? I want to be out there hunting down the a$$hole that did this to me and force him to give back my t$ts and ovaries. I'm a pissed off woman with a c#$k. Don't f*#k with me.

Interviewer: Right, how about we take a short break.


Little more could be gleaned from Sprat's memory. A UIN warrant was issued for a sexless species, or possibly a unisex species with reddish hair and resembling a 20th century classical cellist, but the search still continues without much success.

Jean Sprat is now the official liaison to the Commodore on the S.S. Liberace.

Greeg'u's Punishment, Emperor Plu'boi. Part 3/3

Selection from Arcadian Emperor Plu'boi's Memoirs. 05.05.3001

(English Translation)

Today was a good day. I got to put some poor schmuck through the Flooed Gauntlet. It was hysterical. I laughed so hard I wet my throne. By far the Flooed Gauntlet was the best punishment I ever came up with. It was funny enough that I decreed that the reproductive organs of humans are trophies of war, and then everyone started putting them on their mantles and bedside tables. Being such an enigmatic ruler, I took it a step further and invented a reprimand where I get to watch somebody get lambasted with testicles – it's just priceless.

Oh, it's so good to be Emperor.

I'm thinking of going even further – maybe douse the punished in something really sticky, and then cover them in human hair before bombarding them with human genitals. That'll get so many laughs. I've heard of a human custom called "show tunes". As an added kick we could dress them up in a ball gown and make them perform these "show tunes." You can't go wrong with really hairy and emasculated live entertainment.

Oh, I might as well get a throne that flushes.

Greeg'u's Punishment, Greeg'u. Part 2/3

Personal Journal. 1st Lieutenant Greeg'u. 05.05.3001.

(English Translation)

Today I went before the Arcadian High Command to hear their judgment on my failure. I was much surprised to see Emperor Plu'boi in attendance, and even more amazed that he was there to pass judgment personally. After my crime was read back to me, Plu'boi stood to a thunderous applause by the hundreds in attendance and with two words determined my punishment.

"Flooed Gauntlet," he yelled to an equally boisterous applause.

On the outside I was careful to keep my head held high and level and my tentacles in a respectable motion, but inside I was drowning in mortification. The Flooed Gauntlet is one of the most grievous humiliations. It was devised by Emperor Plu'boi himself, and entails the condemned to walk a long stretch of road with counsel members crowding the sidewalk on either side of you. As you walk, the counsel members pelt you with the testicles of captured humans. Since the conflict with those repugnant humans began, their reproductive sacks have been considered prized trophies. So to be bludgeoned by human testicles is a vile degradation.

Still, I am an Arcadian, and I walked the Flooed Gauntlet with as much dignity as I could muster, even as testicle after testicle in varying degrees of freshness, slapped against my exposed body.

Despite the jeers by all who watched and the lasciviousness of the situation, Emperor Plu'boi appeared impressed at my resolve to accept my punishment. He has granted me the opportunity to regain my pride which can only be achieved by hunting down the vile humans that escaped me in the first place.

When I returned home I threw out my past trophies. I'm about to start a new collection. It will begin with the testicle of the commander of that ship – the one our intelligence has discovered to be the S.S. Liberace.

Death to humans.

Greeg'u's Punishment, Plu'ngi. Part 1/3

Personal Journal. Plu'ngi, Wife to Arcadian 1st Lieutenant Greeg'u. 05.05.3001.

(English Translation)

Oh, my poor, wonderful Greeg'u – my pitiable husband. How I wish I could whisk away the past few weeks for him, and save him from the humiliation he has endured. He came home a week ago, dejected, head hanging low and totally beside himself. There was almost no life left in his tentacles, and he just lumbered to the couch, turned on the proto viewer and watched game shows all day and infomercials about floor wax. It took me the whole afternoon pestering my husband before he would explain what was wrong.

"I totally 'flooed the coodle' (screwed the pooch)," Greeg'u said. "After what I did I'll be lucky to be a commander of a sewage transport."

Apparently he abandoned an extremely important mission into human territory because of a misinterpretation of mission codes. He allowed a human vessel to escape, compromising an assault that had been planned for months.

I tried to console him, but he just moped around the house in his bathrobe drinking hot cocoa, and playing with his collection of human testicles.

Then today, Greeg'u went before the Arcadian High Command to answer for his actions. He refused to allow me to attend, not wanting me to see his embarrassment. When he returned Greeg'u refused to say what happened, but he went straight to his office and dumped his entire testicle collection in the incinerator – even the one that looks like the Arcadian celebrity, Sung'du'kee, which Greeg'u has pined over since he sliced it from the human's scrotum.

I don't know what happened, but at least he will be allowed to make amends. He ships out tomorrow, which means I should give my husband a very special night to remember. I'll have to break out the lotions and jiggle-nibblers.

Death to humans.

A Brief Description of the Arcadians

United Intergalactic Nation (UIN) Archives:

A Brief Description of Arcadians

The Arcadians are a skeletal looking creature, often referred to with the cliché "skin and bones". Their head is asymmetrical, being more prominent to their left side. They have two eyes, two slits that may or may not representa a nose, and no distinguishable mouth, hair, or ears. The odd shaped head is perched on a stick of a neck. Their chest is a spatter of ribs with a bit of flesh stretched over them, and a long, slender torso. Their legs when at rest resemble frog shaped legs, but rather than hop, their legs work on rotator cups – one at the hip and one at the knee. When they move, their legs rotate in a forward or backwards motion in a pedal like fashion. Instead of walking or hopping, they sort of motor.

Arcadians have four arms – two on either side. They are boneless appendages, comprised mostly of ligaments and muscles. The arms are constantly moving, flittering about them like wiry ribbons. When they "motor", their arms are less fanatical and take on a wave like motion. Their speech or means of communication is a "gulping" of the throat, sort of like a bull frog. To humans they sound like they are saying "gump", "gump", over and over, but the Arcadian language is known to be quite diverse.

It is often disputed when the rivalry between humans and Arcadians began, but Buck O'Neal, the famed UIN Captain and Adventurer attributes the ill will back to his first encounter with the species. Apparently, Arcadians find hair, especially human hair to be truly disgusting physical traits. During that first contact, the Arcadians were quite insistent that they be allowed to shave every bit of hair off all the humans' bodies. O'Neal, who was heading up the peaceful delegation, and who is well known for his flowing golden locks, poignantly refused the Arcadians saying, "Hey, your head looks like a mailbox, but I'm not about to start whacking it with a baseball bat." Relations went downhill from there.

Slur Run In, Dr. Leary. Part 5/5

Personal Log. Dr. Timothy Leary XII. 04.25.3001

Haiku #62

My cure for the spins
is gin and hash with a hint
of fresh peppermint.

Slur Run In, Mao Ling. Part 4/5

Personal Log, Chief of Communications Mao Ling, 04.25.3001.

1st Mate Beck and I met with the Slurs that collided with our ship. I had met the Slurs once before. Given the state of my stomach and their grotesque appearance, I asked Dr. Leary to give me a nausea suppressant. When we greeted them 1st Mate Beck couldn't keep his cool. He barfed before we could even give our names. To say the least, the Slurs were not sure what to make of a human puking on their ship. As I am well accustomed with interspecies relations, there were a number of excuses that popped into my head, but I caught Beck checking out my ass on the way over to the Slur ship, so I couldn't help myself.

I explained to the Slurs that this is a common human greeting. They shrugged and regurgitated their lunch, which traditionally consists of mealworms and blood sausage. It had the desired result. Beck started hacking up meals he had ten years ago. Then, unfortunately, I felt a bit queasy myself. Despite the nausea suppressants, I began to vomit along with the rest of them. However, I believe this actually led to them not just repairing our engine, but improving them. It was like a weird and disgusting brotherhood was formed during our vomit share group, and the Slurs proved most generous.

Still, I've heard of blood brothers, but puke pals?

Slur Run In, 1st Mate Beck. Part 3/5.

Personal Log. 1st Mate Beck. 04.25.06

God damn Slurs. I should have vaporized their hairy asses. If it wasn't for our little side agreement, I would have hunted them down, skinned them and hung their grungy pelts from our hull. They would have mad a nice coat and maybe some slippers.

After the Liberace stopped spinning and I was able to get away from my toilette, Chief Communications Officer Mao Ling and I met with the Slurs. I had never encountered one before. They are sort of a cross between a slug, hippo and gorilla. Their fur was thick, but where you could see their gray skin it was scabbed and slimy. And the smell – oh god the smell.

I couldn't help it. I vomited before I could even shake their truncated flipper. Mao Ling said something to them, then for whatever reason, both Slurs started vomiting too. It was a chunky, yellow and green vomit that smelled like Tabasco and sour milk. So I vomited more. Then Lang started barfing and it was a good ten minutes of "guess what I had for lunch".

The Slurs did agree to repair our ship. I saw an opportunity and convinced Ling to talk the Slurs into actually giving our engines a little boost. Unfortunately they couldn't do anything for our weapons. As Ling explained it, a homemade potato gun would do more damage than a Slur phase cannon.

It was a lucky for Jean Sprat the collision occurred when it did. Before the accident, we were engaged in combat training and I was baiting him the whole time, completely pretending he was kicking my ass. I was about to unleash a whole world of hurt when we were hit by the Slurs.

Slur Run In, Jean Sprat. Part 2/5

Personal Log, Commodore's Liaison Jean Sprat. 04.25.30001

Today, a Slur Explorer clipped us, causing our thrusters to fail and turning the Liberace into a child's toy top. When the Liberace was struck, I was in battle simulations with 1st Mate Beck and we were pinned to the walls of the training room like mounted mackerel. When Pilot Vasquez finally managed to bring the ship under control, Beck and I gave the floor of the room a nice gooey vomit coating.

Later, after things had "settled", Chief of Communications Mao Ling and 1st Mate Beck met face to face with the Slurs. After a meeting that Beck refused to go into details about, and Ling could only snicker over, the Slurs have agreed to fix our engines.

However, our run-in with the Slurs (or their running into us) has caused a supply issue on the ship for Maylox DX. The collision had a ship-wide affect, creating varying degrees of illness throughout with the exception of Dr. Leary, who has apparently developed immunity to "the spins". Oddly enough, the debacle also cured Fergie, the Commodore's French poodle. After being frozen in space, and then rejuvenated by Dr. Leary, the poor dog could only walk upside down, sort of like a crab. We discovered high speed spinning temporarily solved the problem, but the collision with the Slurs has apparently cured Fergie permanently.

On a more personal note, I was upset that my training session with Beck was interrupted. I was kicking his precocious ass and was about to end our little competition with a strike to the wind-bags balls, when everything went to hell. I can't wait for the rematch – as soon as I can parry, thrust and slash without retching.

Slur Run In, Commodore Ludwig. Part 1/5

Personal Log. Commodore Ludwig. 04.25.3001.

Uh...gaw...J-Lud's got the blow chunks man. He's tossing cookies like a bulimic after a Girl Scout cookie rally. Not cool man, not cool.

We was cruzin' along, keepn' things melo' and on the d-low, when out of no where, some crazy kat side swiped us a mad fender bender. The impact took out our big rigs and left us without juice – y'know what I'm say'n.

Oh gawd, ug blurp...

That other kat bare-backed us a wooly one and it turned the old Liberace into a tilt awhirl, spinning us round and round on a not so merry go round.

Uh...grrrawl...blrawl....ga...

...before I knew it, I was a whirly bird flying all over the main deck. Cruel vibes, man. Cruel vibes.

I've been barfing up eggplant parm ever since.

burp...ggggrrraaaawwwlllbrlrbb...

A Brief History of the Slurs

United Intergalactic Nation (UIN) Archives:

A Brief History of the Slurs

The Slurs are a space travel capable species, whose home planet resides in the Nanook sector. They are a mammalian species recognized by their thick fur, of which they are quite insistent in calling burnt umber in color. Their most distinctive trait is that their sole purpose in life is not to have a sole purpose in life.

About four thousand years ago, the Slurs were a species of remarkable intelligence. It is even said that they had cracked the aged old puzzle, "What came first, the chicken or the egg?" Unfortunately, their race was nearly obliterated by an army of "Lurrquips", which is similar to a human invention called the Slinky. In an effort to create the never ending Lurrquip, the Slurs imbued them with a nuclear power supply and an artificial intelligence. Unfortunately the Lurrquips were tired of descending staircases over and over, and rebelled against their creators.

Since then the Slurs, go to extremes to stem their intelligence and prevent advancement. For example, Slur infants are induced with a stroke to retard their brain development. Most Slurs have severe facial and muscle damage because of this process. Due to their speech impediments, they were named the "Slurs". They have also adopted an attitude of "no goal in life" rationalizing that by not striving for anything, they'll never receive it.

Despite this, they have developed a star-ship capable of speeds dwarfing that of any vessel in the Intergalactic Armada. Unfortunately, due to their propensity towards misdirection, their ships are heavily lacking in navigation technology. Since they tend to run into things during their travels they have heavily armored hulls for protection, but woe to the ship that may lie in its path.

Voncats, Greeg'u. Part 4/4

Report to Arcadian Command by 1st Lieutenant Greeg'u. 04.15.3001.

(English Translation)

After high-jacking a Voncat ship, the task force was on route to the UIN outpost at Sigma Prime under the guise of a Voncat Peacekeeping envoy. Our mission was to sneak into the central command station in that sector and disable there defenses, whereby an Arcadian Fleet would takeover the sector. The plan was sound. This section of space is virtually unguarded by UIN patrols, the foul humans believing that it is beyond our touch. A successful mission would have granted us a sizeable advantage in our war against the insipid humans.

Five Hours from our destination, we encountered a UIN Cruiser. Keeping with our cover as Voncat Peacekeepers, we attempted to convince the repugnant humans that we wished to dine with them. When their commanders were on board we would have slaughtered them and then gorged on their insides in victory. By means that are beyond my reckoning, they saw through our plan and fired upon us.

We took up a position behind their ship and were preparing to target their engines when they emptied their waste. I was at first confounded by this strategy until our sensors picked up the signature of a canine corpse of poodle origin that had been scalded by high temperatures. This of course is the secret code to abort our mission. Only later did we discover it was all a ruse.

How the wretched humans were able to discover our mission codes, we'll never know, but their captain must be a cunning man in order to pull off such a feet. I will enjoy engaging him in battle and when I have defeated him I will drive an Arcadian lance up his anal cavity and mount him on the front hull of an Arcadian Raptor.

Death to humans.

Voncats, Jean Sprat. Part 3/4

Personal Log. Commodore's Liaison, Jean Sprat. 04.15.3001.

The Commodore had a trying day, yesterday. First, he fell very ill. Apparently he forgot that he was allergic to clams and had New England clam chowder for lunch. He was delirious all night, claiming that thieves were out to steal the recipe for clam chowder.

Fergie #3, one of the Commodore's replacement poodles, met her end yesterday as well. Johnny Junior's pets have always had a low life expectancy, so I keep replacements close by just in case. Well, Fergie #1 is still walking upside down like a crab, and Fergie #2 was given to the Corinthian's to make amends for destroying a couple of their satellites, so I went to Fergie #3. It was just a matter of time, though before an unfortunate accident terminated on of the dogs. Unfortunately for Fergie #3, it met quite a gruesome death. Likely due to his illness, Johnny Junior, went to give Fergie#3 a bath and inadvertently set the shower sprays to clean a Cretian Dune Bug instead of canine. A Dune Bug, which can withstand extreme heat, is washed in significantly higher temperatures.

Luckily, I was able to dispose of the charred poodle corpse and replace it with Fergie #4 before Johnny Junior knew anything was amiss. That leaves me with one healthy dog, and another that looks like it's possessed by a demon.

While I was tossing Fergie #3 into the waste ballasts, apparently the severely ill Commodore had an unfortunate incident with a Voncat peacekeeping ship. At least that is the story 1st Mate, Beck spewed at me while ranting about the Commodore's incompetence. I tried to question him about the incident, but Beck was spitting so much vinegar I couldn't learn much.

It all seemed so strange. In my experience with the Voncats, they show as much interest in peacekeeping as they do in warfare. There's a Voncat proverb that states: Quibble during the day, apologize during the night, why not forget it all and drown ourselves in a pint.

Which reminds me of a lesson I learned while in a Voncat pub. Never do shots with a Voncat unless you want to make your bed on the barroom floor and wake up the next morning with nothing more on than a hangover.

Voncats, 1st Mate Beck. Part 2/4

Personal Log. Ludwig from 1st Mate Beck. 04.15.3001.

That moronic piece of varicose ass is going to have us busted down to shipping duty transporting herds of rat swine.* There is no way I'm letting Commodore Suck-nut flush my career down the crapper.

At approximately 1700 hours, Commodore Ludwig engaged in combat with a Voncat peacekeeping cruiser. Upon first contact, the Captain of the Voncat craft extended an invitation to dine with their crew where upon the Commodore inexplicably grabbed the controls for our forward phase cannons and fired upon the vessel. If Commodore Dim-wit's aim had been true, the poorly defended ship would have been annihilated. However, the Commodore's targeting was so poor you'd think a child who had been dropped on his head was playing with the controls. The Voncat ship took up a defensive position to our stern, unable to fight back.

Then, mumbling incoherently about New England clam chowder, the Commodore dumped our waste while trying to deploy a mine spread in our wake. Believing our own garbage was the wreckage of a destroyed ship, the Commodore ordered us to continue on our way.

Chief of Communication, Mao Ling tried to issue a sincere apology to the Voncat craft, but it flew beyond our scanners without a response. Later, it was determined that the Commodore may have been suffering from the flu. Personally I think he's a bombastic baboon fresh out of the booby hatch.

I don't care what Admiral's loins he's the rotted fruit of. One more, just one more cockamamie antic from that gangrenous cow teat and I'll atomically attach his head to his butt cheeks so he can see just how far I can shove my foot up his Hershey highway.


* A rat swine is a product of the cross genealogy craze in the 2990s. It is a half rodent, half pig splicing. Most such creatures were destroyed or died out due to the inability to reproduce. Rat swines, however, showed a propensity for survival and are incidentally delicious barbecued with a side of cheddar mashed potatoes.

Voncats, Commodore Ludwig, Part 1/4

Personal Log. Commodore Jonathan W. Ludwig Jr., 04.15.3001

Success! In the first combat engagement with an alien species by the Liberace, we handedly thwarted a dastardly plot by a Voncat Destroyer to steal some of our vital systems information. Upon initial contact, the Voncats opened fire on us, obviously trying to destroy our thrusters. We returned fire and a heated battle ensued. Their Captain who was a crafty adversary – a bow-wow with the know how – then set up in an attack position on our stern. Tactically a UIN cruiser is no match to the fire power of a Voncat Destroyer and if they had been able to bust a cap on the ol' Liberace, we would have been space dust. However, due to my totally dope strategizing, I emptied our waste ballasts and the Voncat craft was disabled as it flew through the refuse. That's one crack head that won't be dissn' J-Lud's posse again.

I ordered Mao Ling to call in for a UIN clean up crew. We could have mopped up those douche bags ourselves, but I felt it was more vital to continue with or mission to Terraquadonis.

I also issued a command today that every Friday, Chef will serve New England clam chowder for dinner. I've never been to New England, but if the Chef's soup is any indication of their cuisine, J-Lud is laying out his pad in N-Gland fer-sure bra'.

Prolific Prose

Sample poetry by Dr. Timothy Leary XII


Haiku #14

I am ill at ease
Seeing Joan Miro's paintings,
Cartoons of disease


Haiku #22

It's hard to doodle
Old people who canoodle
On beds of noodles


Haiku #48

Mix Gorgonzola
With a strain of Ebola
And get crap-ola

Getting to Know the Crew, Dr. Leary

A Brief Biography of Dr. Timothy Leary XII

Dr. Timothy Alfonse Leary XII is the descendent of the infamous 20th century Leary of the same name. Graduating from the Jamaican School of Medicine, Dr. Leary earned instant notoriety for his doctoral thesis on the healing effects of his ancestor's LSD drug when treating Mad Duck disease. It was an affliction the Doctor himself suffered from. He apparently had become infected with Mad Duck while experimenting with a fungus that grows on fowl dung.

Outside the medical field, the Doctor is also a writer of some cult popularity. He is most recognized for the volumes of Haiku poetry he has written. Dr. Leary is touted by many as spawning the "Regurgitation Movement" of the modern Haiku. Some of his more noted poems are Pickle my Feet, Greased Suppository and Euphoric Brownie. More recently Dr. Leary has abandoned titles for his works stating that a poem should stand on its own. It is often conjectured that he writes so many Haiku poems he has in fact just run out of ideas for titles. None the less, Dr. Leary now simply labels his poems as Haiku #32 or Haiku #56.

Not respected by all, one of Dr. Leary's more staunch critics, Snell Silverstein, lamented that Leary's work represented "carnival prose". In which Leary responded, "Blow my pole."

Besides poetry, Dr. Leary has also written "The Event Horizon of Cream Cheese." It's a novella about a man who believes a bagel's empty center is the black hole for cream cheese everywhere. Some speculate that the book is autobiographical.