The Me Team

Id, the wolverine of the bunch 
(snicker), could really use a censor 
sense to go with those unstoppable claws,
invincible bones and supple size. 

But Superego's unavailable for the capacity, 
circling the earth at top speed hot on fixing 
some chick's fault, but she's long gone so 
he's reduced to arguing with some tricked-up
God, or Father, or Godfather figure's disembodied head! 

Who adds insult to humiliation by taking 
a paycheck for this, and not showing up. Our Hero 
has to ape His lines himself, in a booming 
patrician arch accent approximating his 
(but never His, sad) idea of authority's
style, when speaking with such power

to truth. Or 
at it. 

No one is tricked, fooled, moved, gulled,
cowed or otherwise flocks to hear, have
their wool knit watch-caps dragged like bangs
into their eyes and be fleeced by this, but 

You know I've always preferred shepherd's
pie to mutton? I mean, m'mm m'mm
mutton's good! But it's not swimming
in gravy under a suffocating layer of mash
with notes of dear bloody John. 

That was the sheep's name.

John. A prize winner in his day. Ram
-tough. HEY! Is for horses. I thought
shepherd's pie was supposed to have
beef? Well, this is sure mutton. Where's

the beef?

Ah, there it is. My mistake. I thought 
I tasted John.  

Where's ego to go,
though? What's ego
to do, all torn between
being and not-being,
fretting and strutting
in a mild-mannered 
spasm of fumbling,
stumbling, rumbling
bumbling (he could
go
all
the
way!) cataracts of excuses,
so self-image conscious
he's the onliest man in the
world! (or acts it, but really,
badly. Not if he were the last
man on earth would that lure 
hook anything resembling "a
catch"). Wait!

He's gone!

Where'd he go?
Why is it we never catch ego 
and the id mid-coitus? Always post-!
Afterglow unmistakable. It can't possibly
be modesty, but    
- no wait. He's

there. Over there.
He was there all along.

Yeah. He's...he appears
to be writing a poem. Never mind, 
ignore him
he has no powers
to speak off. He
he he he he he he 
he he he he he he
nope, he actually doesn't! 

Huh, what an impostor.
What an insufferably impudent
-with-impunity unimportant
fleaspeck of a ridiculous and
fantastic figure he cuts up as!
He's an EVERYMAN in that
respect! Quick!

That's the angle! Call the toy
company, strike at a deal for
the rights and such, and rush 
these three dolls into production!

CALL THEM

Ah, 

we pay marketing for that.
Let's leave that ball
to marketing.

Such trifles we pay them for
and actually let them do oft
reap huge gains. That's 
why we do it,
you know. Now!

Who's in charge 
of the intellectual
properties (such
as they are)? Who
do we have to blow 
up in a car, if no
reasonable accommodations 
are available at the inn? 
In-bounds of whatever's
the budget for that, I mean.
Otherwise, first-class all the way!
Let's wine, woo, win this chum
and dine out on the story
for a double-summer's-worth
of hot nights! Oh. 

Aw crap. 

Not that guy again.  

It's him. Why 
is it always him.

The ego on him