When I was in school, I mean elementary school, one day I took a shit. I screwed up at school, I mean; And it wasn’t exactly funny.
That must have been in second or third grade. Because I’m sure it wasn’t in first grade, nor was it in fourth, fifth or sixth. It was in one of those two degrees.
Since I was born in 1958, that was in the year 1966 or 1967, before man landed on the moon; I put the shit before. Although there are still many pussies and mothers who do not believe that the man came to the moon; to me whether they believe or not, really, he tastes like shit to me.
Going back to what I was saying, I entered first grade at the age of 7, which I turned in 1965. Actually, between 6 years and 10 months, because I was born in November and the school year in this dick begins in September. They couldn’t keep me waiting until next year, because then I’d be too old for first grade.
The shit happened in 1966 or 1967. I don’t remember how it was that I shit; I don’t remember if I was playing at recess and I took a shit somewhere or if I went to have a fart and took a shit, I don’t know. I get the impression that it was outside the classroom, because I don’t remember the intervention of the teacher in that matter. It was, yes, one morning; because except for the fifth grade, all the other years I studied in the morning.
The truth is that I screwed up. I felt the shit in my pants and that it was slipping down my little leg. I also remember that I went to the school office to tell the director that I had screwed up and that I had to go home. So it was.
I remember in the Directorate, in front of the Director, thinking how to tell him that I had screwed up, I was looking in my poor mind for a synonym, an antonym or any other word that was more decent; but I confess and swear by my mother that I did not find any other words and I said to the Director:
—I screwed up.
That was all I told him. He sent me home.
Since the house was close to the school; I was right there, a block away was the Delfin house, I went there. I don’t know what happened there, what Eugenia told me when I arrived, or anything.
What I remember is that I took a shower, I washed that ass well; and I put on the other uniform I had. Because he had two little feet. Back then the school uniform was white shirt and khaki pants. One must have looked like a miniature workman. I had two little shirts that Eugenia had made for me, which she put into the seam. And two little khaki pants, these were bought. The shoes must have been black, normal.
The females used, at that time, a white blouse and a pleated or plain khaki skirt; They also wore some black shoes that they called «nuggets» they were half round, half ugly the pussies and mothers. But that’s how everyone dressed.
I changed my uniform and went back to school. I don’t remember anything else about that day. If they chased me or not, if the teacher told me something. I don’t remember anything else about that day I shit myself.
Now, what the hell does this shit have to do with the manipulation of the sick subject?
Here we go.
Let’s say I start doing a workshop on personal growth, self-help, coaching or any other of those guevonadas. And I count this pod, surely the mamaguevo of those who are now called coach; because I’m going to tell you what, the coaches already existed and one knew them as a first base coach, third base coach and pitching coach, say it there. Because that pod is old-fashioned in baseball.
Now they are not trainers or trainers but coach, mamertos is what they are.
If I were to tell that story that I took a shit at school in a coaching or self-help session; sure that the coach would become, at that moment, the very reincarnation of Sigmund Freud and would start with the psychoanalysis bullshit. Because these coaches are all cock, they all know it.
A dick that has never read a book by Freud, begins to search in the depths of the ego, the superego or the ultraego for some anal dick to fuck me and tell me that there is a hidden dick that does not let me advance in life. Mamaguevo.
The shit is like that.
Because in that rice with mango that are those pods of self-help and other mariqueras, any cock with which they can manipulate one is good.
I remember that once I was walking around with the book «The interpretation of dreams» by Freud, and an old woman who was standing next to me asked me if that book was good for «little animals» and the lottery. Who knows what cock I will have answered him. So are the self-help.
The whips of those self-help pods start from the “a priori” principle —wow, that dirty little word— that one is a “sick subject”. I did not invent this shit, that cock is said by Eva Illouz in the book “The Salvation of the Modern Soul”[i], it is one of her conclusions. And I agree with this author.
Because if we are «sick subjects» we have any cock. And so it’s easy for them to manipulate us with that shitty talk they use. In the case of self-help bullshit we are in a relationship: manipulator → manipulated: coach → “sick subject”.
The «sick subject» is the equivalent of the sinner in the Christian religion. With the sheath of the original fall, since Adam’s mamaguevo sinned, all of us who come after him are sinners and, therefore, we are subject to God and his institutions. They suck me crosswise.
Because of that original sin, in Christianity, we always have some sin to pay for, we are never free and we are always subject to God. The same occurs in self-help with the «sick subject», we always have some mental problem for which we must be treated.
As the «sick subject» is a being that needs to believe in something and be redeemed, he is waiting for someone to guide and redeem him. And who else is going to be, but the coach.
In the case of the story about the shit I did at school, I’m sure that the fag coach would start with the worse shit of psychoanalysis to look for mental illnesses to screw me: he would say I have a trauma, or some dick is going to invent. And I’m going to believe it as a geek because I need to believe in something they tell me. I look for an explanation and there he handed me over to the coach.
The shithead of the coach is in no way going to see that I solved the problem of having shit myself successfully and, furthermore, I was responsible because I went back to school to listen to my class. No, he will insist that there is a hidden problem, that there is a trauma that does not let me move forward, because he considers that I am a «sick subject.» He’s going to get fucked in that ass.
This is the issue that needs to be cleared up in all that self-help, coaching, and personal growth crap. If we assume that we are a “sick subject”. So, we assume that we are a patient who has neither voice nor vote in the supposed diagnosis. Pure stale shit, this is it.
We have to be vigilant and careful with this set of manipulators and manipulations, which are part of a large commercial and mercantile business.
[i] Eva Illouz. La salvación del alma moderna. Katz Editores, Buenos Aires, 2010.
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