The organ of Comparison is situated in the upper part of the forehead on the middle line between the two sides, just below the hairline. Comparison gives ability to perceive differences and resemblances; to reason inductively; to analyze, and to judge correctly the congruousness of objects and ideas. Its seems to exercise a harmonizing influence over all the other faculties. This organ was large in the heads of David Hume, Daniel Webster, Patrick Henry, Edmund Burke, and John Quincy Adams. The faculty is best cultivated through the study of logic, philosophy, chemistry, or botany. It does not require restraint.
That's why I cut him. The shit he was talking, man, you would've cut him too. Besides, it wasn't much, just something on the arm. You know, to get his attention. I mean I wouldn't stab the little fucker, or mess up his face or anything. Shit, he is my brother-in-law. And my sister went nuts about it as it is. If I had stabbed himand let me tell you, anyone else would have definitely been stabbingwell, then, Jesus H. Christ would have heard about it the way she screamed. And then my mother got in on the act. "What inna hell you doin' stabbing your own family," she says. First off, I say, I didn't stab him, ma, I cut him. A little. And second, he's not real family, he's not blood. My sister's screaming that she's gonna tear my eyes out if I ever touch him again. I say, Ma, listen to this. She wants to tear my eyes out. I mean that's bad. It's biblical or something. All I did was one little cut and this crazy bitch, and I mean that with a brother's love and all, but still, this crazy bitch wants to blind me with her bare hands. I say, Ma, that's not fair. That's not an eye for an eye. I didn't take nobody's friggin' eye. Why's she taking my eye? But ma's no help.
She and my sister, they're on the same rag. They get together and it's a bitch bonanza till their tongues get too tired to wag anymore. Always the same thing. How my old man's a bastard. How my sister's husband's a no-good bastard. Shit, I know that. That's one goddamn reason I cut him. But they're all talk. If my ma wanted to do something, she could go down to Grillo's bar and grab my old man by the ear and drag his drunken ass home. He wouldn't put up no fight and besides my ma's twice as big as him. Or my sister. She oughta tell that greaseball that if she catches him dickin' around with any of her girlfriends again, she's gonna burn his Camaro but not before she sends a little note to his parole officer about some of his new buddies. This is the kinda talk that ain't just tongue wagging. This talk gets results. So somebody in this family finally does something and all of a sudden this no-good bastard's got her crying, "Oh, my baby, oh no, you stabbed my darling baby, oh honey, oh baby." I mean, we're talking about four, maybe five stitches here. You know, a love tap with balls.
Shit, I've gotten worse and didn't even go to the hospital. Just put a half a box of Band-Aids on. Hey, you remember that guy with the nose from Forsythe Street. He got whacked with a curtain rod in his backyard by that crazy old dago who ended up getting killed when he fell out the window putting his air-conditioner in. Well, that guy's head was bleedin' like a motherfucker and he comes tearing out of the house holding a friggin' Kotex on his head. The EMS guys were laughing so hard they could hardly get him in the van. The best part was the Kotex guy's wife. She was out in the driveway in her bathrobe going berserk, hollering up at Christ in heaven, her curlers flyin' off every which way. And just before they shut the ambulance she runs up and grabs the door and yells in at her old man, "You goddamn sonamabitch, I knew you'd find some way to screw up my birthday. We're goin' shopping today if you gotta drive the car in a wheelchair."
But anyways, this cut I did was not an emergency vehicle, critical condition kind of cut. Like I said, it was just a warning, like how cops, you know, shoot warning shots. Now I don't think that's so swift. I mean we're supposed to be civilized people. We've got words to work things out, we should use 'em. Well, this tiny cut was supposed to say, Hey shithead, don't be talking out your ass about things you know nothing about. It's not much more than grabbing somebody by the shoulder and giving them a good shake. Except for, you know, the blood. And the hospital. At least he didn't tell the doctors anything dumb, like "My brother-in-law stabbed me." He said he got caught climbing over a chain-link fence. They said, "Bullshit," but he said, "Maybe there's was a knife stuck on the fence, I don't know, but all I was doing was climbing over 'cause the gate was stuck." The guy's not a complete fool.
All in all though, not counting my sister's shitfit and mom kickin' me outa the house for awhile, I think it was worth it. I made my point and shit-for-brains hasn't piped up for days. I'm thinking that we've made some progress here and I want to believe that when he gets the stitches out he won't be backsliding. One time I read this book I found on the subway, well, mostly I just read the stuff on the back cover, but it was about the "perfectability of the spirit." And I definitely believe in something like that. A jerkoff might not be able to improve himself right away outta being a jerkoff, but he can at least get on the right road. Be a better kind of jerkoff. Less under your nose with it, you know. Right now he's livin' it up. Got his wide-load behind planted in a lounge chair, every pillow in the house stuffed around him, and my sister with the, "Can I get you some more chips, you want another sandwich." All cush and kisses. Shit, I wish somebody woulda cut me. But, man, that's the way it is with family shit. No matter how hard you try to be a good guy, nobody cares. They say you're wrong, when you're right. They say you stabbed somebody, when all you did was cut him.