His name is Kant Emmanuel and he is 76 years old. He is a handsome 100 kilo guy who is lying on his bed, dreaming of metaphysics and other narrownesses of the analytical knob.
His weight was the main attraction of his person: his friends had fun making witticisms to laugh in the warmth and good humor: “And manual?! Oh handsome guy?! Listen, we thought about it and we said to ourselves that with your books as violent as a mono-fellatio, your body so delicate to determine and your wonder at the world of war, we had fun imagining something which would have these three characteristics and we found: Tank! » - little jokes between intellectually consenting friends.
But neither Kant's weight nor his sexuality as unbridled as that of a bed flea are the subject of this text below. Kant is in the midst of writing his major work:
Critique of Pure Reason. Bam! The title is launched! The mechanics kick in: while the a priori and the a posteriori teeter together, the analytical and the synthetic whisper to each other: you stink like ass. Kant finds himself, at this moment, very far from us: he floats between wisdom and the sublime. He has no use for these jokes, each as shocking as the other.
A little bibliographical crumb before, to inject us into the wonderful, mischievous and adventurous world of Uncle Kant during the writing of said book.
Kant is sitting in his office, accompanied by his friend Ulriche who will celebrate her 80th birthday next August.
Cluttered with books, leaves, quills, ink everywhere.
Kant's glasses slip on this artificial perspiration of intellectual masturbations. His gray beard covers his clothes...bloated face...severe look but there for the occasion, he feels relaxed: the look of a smoker or a fried whiting, for non-smokers.
In front of him, this woman of almost a century is so bent that it is her knees which hold her: for this purpose, Professor Kant has planned everything: a series of mirrors arranged on the ground until they articulate when bowing more and more so that their image can be transmitted to each other. If you don't understand the process, don't get tired: imagine these little mirrors that we place on the top of our foot and which allow us to see the other side of things. Yes, Kant is a pro when it comes to mirrors. Let us never forget that this discovery belongs to him.
They talk through mirrors. From time to time, Kant acts as a researcher in geriatrics and collects drool from the old lady when the mirrors become too blurry.
Now let's try to enter the discussion:
" - Ulriche, my dear friend...I must share with you something that is gnawing at the depths of my being.

- Go ahead, swing my darling!

- ...there you go, I don't know where to start...
- Start by defining the moment: that is to say now, because I don't have my whole life ahead of me as you may notice, so give birth Dear ! Besides, there's a handsome stallion waiting for me outside, I definitely don't want to leave him waiting. Yes, we are holding on, what do you think? Do you think I'm so hunched because of my age? ... virgin-go! - Well precisely, you offer me a perfect transition for the subject which is so difficult for me to relax: there you go..."I have never done", the verb to do eh, conjugated to the past tense of the third person singular, "love", the noun of the interpenetration of beings: I am 'virgin' as you say. "
The old woman had gradually stood up, displaying a false surprise on her face: no more need for mirrors: Kant's virginity was able to raise up this spine of almost a century which was hung up like a common dealer's telephone. There, it was the cell phone that opened in slow motion to prolong the moment when we hope that it is Janine or Valentin who is sending us a text.

" - But since when... I mean: do you at least jerk off?
- Please Ulriche, a little tact!

It was very difficult for me to even consider asking myself the question: is touching the same as kissing? And then well, I did a little culture and I ended up understanding that all this was in fact only a question of an exchange of fluid through an excrescence and a flattening of the ground due to sliding.
- Yes yes, excuse me darling, I would like to thank you for this back: you offered me a second hang-up after a call announcing the success of a big sale!
In short, you've never said to yourself: 'I have to soak this little bitch sad not to be set in motion?'. No ?! Sometimes ? 'when you see young women passing in the street'? Ah...well that's good, I want to tell you. So what ? Are you still in stationary mode on this question? Did you submit the report? ... Because 'would it have taken too long to answer it and then write a book about it?' ".
The old woman gets up a little more.

" - ... but my darling, no one tells you to write books every time you ask yourself questions... look where you are!?

You must be captivated by the spirit of sex itself: 72...73 you have? 73 years without ever having experienced the applause of two pools hitting each other, it's sad. You should at least go to the whores!
- Finally Ulriche!
- What ?! What are you going to do at your age?
- With all respect I have for you, you are as old as you are and you still cultivate the art of sex.
- Yes, but it's the crisis for you, not for us and then there are always a few precocious people who revolve around old women like me...and there are, 'less' I must admit , precocious ages that don't revolve around anything at all. Like you.
But listen, because here I have to break and save energy and not waste it trying to understand your state: go to the whores!

You say it's 'faded flower' who sent you, it's me.

They'll catch your eye, it's for me.
Otherwise listen, stop a little all this philosophical research in search of knowledge of why, how, if-it-is-that etc, just to fuck what! To travel a little, you who have not gone beyond the borders of Königsberg: attempt the odyssey of the vaginal space.
You'll see, you'll like it.
Come on, goodbye and see you next time. " - she says, giving him a forced smile, eager to find her prince charming.
Kant, for his part, a little disappointed, takes off his glasses, places them on the table.
"Damn, they're dirty" - he says to himself.
He wipes them.
This exchange with his dear friend did not prevent him from committing "Critique of Pure Reason", a major work in the History of philosophy.

He understood that the quality of a work is measured according to the degree of sexual lack that the artist experiences.

All this accumulation of sexual frustration released into an artistic creation, like the violent jet of vomit in a good American comedy film. We like it or we don't like it, you can feel it from afar.

*2013