The Table was a bit underpopulated, but it was still early. Gerry Yount was chuckling as he claimed a seat next to Mary Richards.

Loosening a bundle of stapled paper packets from under his arm, expectantly, and noting the names written on each one against the current attendance, "Ostennn, Yyyyeount t's me, Rrrich-chards, Popperrrr.." .

"Very good, Gerry.", Larry Osten teased, "You're finally getting it. Except I'm not Mary, she is."

"Oh swell! Mock me, shrink! Mock me. Ruin my self esteem forever! .. Hey, what the hell are they calling today's special?"

Seth muttered poop, as Denise offered, peanuts in slime.

"Yount!" Belachnik shouted across the table, creating a wedge of silence in the jabber. An expectant question sought affirmation. Did Macaluso really punch out Fischbein? Peter's big twisted eager smile not only communicated hope that the rumor was true but that, somehow, this Fischbein character was permanently geometrically altered. An inevitable buzz ensued, which Yount didn't want to stifle with a less comical first hand account.

"Bel - lach - nik, ahh here, this one's yours. And Denise, take this one."

Yount wasn't offering up anything just yet, as his distribution was not yet satisfied. Each and every person present had a particular juicy version of the operating room carnage, having in common something like a bleeding Fischbein on the floor and a raving roaring King Kong Macaluso jumping up and down on his chest. Dr. Farr, a bit out of character, chimed in that he hoped Fischbein got it good. "He's a terrible person. I like him not at all."

"Hey. I like him not at all, also too!" Doctor Ivory laughed from two tables away prodding at Farr's English, to which he got a giggled retort in Arabic over a raised middle finger. Gentle jabbing and counter jabbing went on until, finally, Yount recounted the actual events, exactly, to everyone's disappointment, still with pamphlets in hand to his own. No. Fishbein wasn't bloodied. And yes, certain of Fischbein's buddies in administration were going to do, according to Fishbein, real damage to Macaluso. Tawny's role, as complainer, was a really sore point to Denise Mason who was incredulous, "That prefuckingtentious cunt has a mouth on her worse than mine! Hypocrit!" Others were chiming in with every name for liar they could muster, montebank, pecksniff, dissembler, liar, and so on.

Now, even with all this, the Table was comparitively cool compared to the last gathering. Today there was merely vigor in agreement. Agreement does not last the way argument does. Yesterday, table talk had been flat out combative - and deep, way deep. For one thing, yesterday, Mac wasn't there to throw his brooding ice water on the philosophical cross-fire that erupted regularly at the table. Maybe it was the moon. Whatever.

Osten, way too invested, protested apothegms and bellowed over Belachnik's loudly assertive but meandering rantings lacking any anchoring philosophical relevance. The only uncontended surviving exposition, and it was brief, was a plea on behalf of Jeffersonian practicality of faith in balance of power rather than faith in people or, worse, faith in faith. "Faith kills," was to become a classic Farr-ism. The civilized poetic contributions of Gibran with its religious overtones contrasted with religious disillusionment and the call to the collective modern psyche topped it off. Farr couldn't resist dewesternizing such a discussion. As usual he was brilliant. As usual he was dismissed as a rag head.

Farr always kept his feet planted in the topic at hand when casting in the philosophical waters. But Seth Popper had gone on a bizarre tirade about philosophic anemia plaguing modernism - to a wall of Say what?s and Huh?s, complaining, for example, that nobody gives a poo about Nietzsche, as somebody mumbled schitzo, let alone Thomas Aquinas. "Oh listen to you," Morgan sneered, "Aquinas should have stuck to letching! Did less harm." Denise, still reacting to the Nietzsche reference, rambled something in pseudo-German about uber madchens and kranks, eliciting an "I'll give you a krank," from Popper, of all people. Belachnik approved with a rolling fist overhead gesture. Denise returned a mock swoon, "Oooo Seth. Will you get it up for me as you do for your life sized suitable-for-framing fluorescent-backlit Venus transparency?" Seth jolted, then went introspective for a short pause, "Mmmm, actually, Denise, no." She was crushed, no a match for a light box pin-up.

It was Yount who, yesterday, totally out of his element in discussions about monads and pre-established harmonies, played the peace maker. It was he who, instead swept all past doctrines away, and proposed an alternative all embracing elastic philosophy for our modern age, Ernie-ism. Ernie Dwell, a laughable figure, laughable if he didn't have such institutional clout, decided what was and what was not the next thing that simply must be changed and implemented before the next commission inspection. Pointless preemptive preparation paralysis, was Gerry's evaluation.

It was all those self imposed 'never can tell' what they might knock us down on barnacles of inspection paranoia - B.I.P.'s - that made the commission so despised. Even when they didn't fault you, it was proof that all that time wasting nonsense was for the good. Each useless commission fending barnacle layered on top of a host of predecessors. Mary Richards wondered what the human genome might look like if there had there been a DNA joint commission and an RNA Ernie. "Couldn't shit through the BIPs," Yount summarized.

Fruits of Ernie-ism included, the very attractive - to children - bright red cookie-jar look alike dirty needle disposal containers. There was the guaranteed to get you somebody somebody else's medication by accident idea in the guise of confidentiality through anonymity - removal of patient names from bedside charts. We can't forget the implementation of security clamps on the emergency cart to prevent unwanted people from moving it - especially doctors scrambling to resuscitate some lost soul who is probably screaming "SECURITY CLAMPS?" in Saint Peter's ear. But the public does not notice stuff like that, not the really deadly subtle ideas.

The public notices decor. And there, Ernie topped himself. The public was treated to those most visibly horrific posters that declare all the rights that patients ought to be asserting - in six languages plus Braille - printed in seventeen annoying fonts on a makes-you-blind plastic glossy laminated poster sized about three feet wider than any wall space that can be found. These whale sized monstrosities came in an assortment of styles which, according to Yount, were baleen, killer, gray, bottlenose, beaked, toothed, pilot, narwhal, finback, finner, humpback and beluga - depending upon the interest group whose ass you were kissing this week. Varied though they were, each was in keeping with the series by way of inordinate size. Each had to be cut into vertical strips and hung like wall paper rather than admit to planning error. Ernie Eyesore became his official Table name. His favorite phrase, "Gotta be ready for the commission," a battle cry of mediocrity.

Eyesore mimed expertise to disguise own ineptness with a veneer of half baked factoids relating to the specialty of whatever doctor he was plaguing that day. His deceit was as transparent as the lamination surfaces that immediately peeled up in curls when the eyesore posters were hung. Yount's solution was to just choke the guy. But that was yesterday. Today holding lonely pamphlets, he was asking, "Where's Mac and Shannon?" disappointed at their sustained absence. Obviously, he wanted them in on this. "Oh well," he shrugged, pointing out specific color coded pages on the sheaves of photostats. Checking each prewritten name, "Farr! Here, take this one. Tusk, you be Mac." Responding to a cross eyes, "Don't worry, you'll survive." Ivory took the handout, which got him off his meandering querry of the others as to whether any of them had ever had their garbage stolen. "Why would somebody steal my garbage?" he was asking as Denise put him off by insinuating that he was implying that his garbage had more value than theirs. Popper was about to join in by recalling that he, too, had noticed his garbage amiss, but he wasn't sure. Rolling conversation swept this curiosity away.

"What is this?" a general mumbling to Yount's hand outs. He now was dealing out his last extra undesignated copies as if cards in a poker game, while somebody was still asking around what a pecksniff was. Was that a urologic reference?

"Ladies. Gentlemen. You have your respective scripts. We will do a group sing along. Come in on your part - highlighted in yellow on your copy. Everybody join in on the chorus. No. Wait. Stop. Don't turn the pages. Not yet. Just read as you go." A heightened level of expectation set in as many in the outer periphery moved in to take part in the group refrain, doubling up on the extra scripts which were passed along. Some were laughing.

"Hey! No reading ahead," Yount asserted command. "Don't turn yet. OK?" A general agreement went up.

Osten asked, "Sing along? What's the tune? These are just words."

Yount looked at him in surprise, "Right there. Sound Off. You know, that military marching song?. I've rewritten it in honor of Ernie Eyesore and all the bull shit philosophers you goobers keep jabbering about. OK? Everybody ready? We'll all thump a marching beat." Yount began a military rhythm with his hands on the table edge as everybody thumped in, "Loud. OK?"

< All, Chorus > Sound off ! One two

Sound off ! Three four

Sound off, one two, three four,

THREE FOUR ! Hut, hut, hut

Ernie !

My girl's got long shapely legs      <His girl's got long shapely legs>

Opens wide and makes me beg.    <Opens wide and makes him beg.>

< All, Chorus > Sound off ! One two

Sound off ! Three four

Sound off, one two, three four,

THREE FOUR ! Hut, hut, hut

Jefferson !

Ours is government by consent.    < We mind ourselves, ourselves alone>

Quod ecclesia Angelicana libera sit  < Quod ecclesia bomp-a bomp-a bomp bomp>

< All, Chorus > Sound off ! One two

Sound off ! Three four

Sound off, one two, three four,

THREE FOUR ! Hut, hut, hut

Ernie ! Again !

My girl's breasts are huge and sweet. < His girl's breasts are huge and sweet.>

Rubs them on my sweaty feet.   < Rubs them on his sweaty feet.>

< All, Chorus > Sound off ! One two

Sound off ! Three four

Sound off, one two, three four,

THREE FOUR ! Hut, hut, hut

Kahlil !

Words cannot take lips in flight. < Words cannot take lips in flight.>

Alone the eagle seeks it's height. < Alone the eagle seeks it's height.>

< All, Chorus > Sound off ! One two

Sound off ! Three four

Sound off, one two, three four,

THREE FOUR ! Hut, hut, hut

Saint Augustine !

Shall this truth, Lord, jest at man?   < Shall this truth, Lord, jest at man?>

Present time's the shortest stand.   < Nor the past the longest span.>

< All, Chorus > Sound off ! One two

Sound off ! Three four

Sound off, one two, three four,

THREE FOUR ! Hut, hut, hut

OK, Ernie ! Again !

Uh..  My girl's got, um... intellectual tits.   <hut hut hut hut, hut hut hut hut>

Her thinking nipples give me fits. <hut hut hut hut, hut hut hut hut>

< All, Chorus > Sound off ! One two

Sound off ! Three four

Sound off, one two, three four,

THREE FOUR ! Hut, hut, hut

Nietzsche !

Where rabble drinks we smell decay.  < Where rabble drinks we smell decay.>

I walk in gloom through yesterdays.  < He walks unpleased through yesterdays.>

< All, Chorus > Sound off ! One two

Sound off ! Three four

Sound off, one two, three four,

THREE FOUR ! Hut, hut, hut

Hobbs !

Free will lives in a clump of goo. <frontal, temporal, grey and white>

The smell of piss lives in there too. <must obey whether wrong or right>

< All, Chorus > Sound off ! One two

Sound off ! Three four

Sound off, one two, three four,

THREE FOUR ! Hut, hut, hut

Gautama !

Squallor born, man that's tough shit <karma dharma what's the harm-a?>

But it's your turn, get over it!  <hut hut hut hut, hut hut hut hut>

< All, Chorus > Sound off ! One two

Sound off ! Three four

Sound off, one two, three four,

THREE FOUR ! Hut, hut, hut

Ernie ! Try again!

My girl reads some real hard books.   <His girl reads some real hard books.>

Hard books make her crotch feel good.   <hut hut hut hut, hut hut hut hut>

< All, Chorus > Sound off ! One two

Sound off ! Three four

Sound off, one two, three four,

THREE FOUR ! Hut, hut, hut

Dr. Farr was spinning new pseudo Gibran verses. Belachnik was trying to pen a Gorki-esque entry, but the chorus thinned as the novelty was wearing and Lois, the children's clinic secretary, wandered in to ask, "Anybody know exactly what's happening?"

Several responded, "Happening?, obviously with no insight. Osten provided the obvious, "Like what?"

"Well, for one thing, that marvelous Milton never returned from Philly. Kishy said Gwen is a basket case, crying her eyes out about them getting him, whoever them is. Kishy hasn't sen her for days. Ham hasn't either. Larry? Anybody? ... Oh, and it looks like shit is hitting the fan at the clinic. Only thing is, I can't tell whose shit it is and whose fan.... 'ja see Shannon around?"

There was confusion over Lois's slough of realities. There were the "They must have phoned somebody," incredulous second guessings, the ominous, "This got anything to do with Philadelphia?" worries and the ever present, "I'm sure there's a good explanation." Maybe. But maybe not. Furrowed brow silence ran the table followed by subtle vacant pouty squints that signify a preponderance of foreboding. It didn't take a shrink to catch the collective consciousness operating here.

"Hey Tusk," Lois again broke the momentum of the silence, "D'ja see the morning news? That Hallam kid? She died in a soccer game - head hit or something." Nathan Ivory was suddeny standing and cursing in an uninterupted stream of invectives. Those who hadn't the background, were nudging each other for clues to Ivory's out of character decomposure. It was clear to Lois, from the general cluelessness, that nobody had seen Shannon, so she left leaving a wake of disquiet. Seth turned to Ivory, "Tusk. There's some weird shit going on. Tell me about that garbage thing," but Ivory just kept swearing.