A monkey attacks the University. He is not a big monkey but he is a powerful monkey and a purposeful monkey and the administrators don’t know what to do. They’re scared, but everybody more or less likes monkeys, even the evil, destructive ones. Prudence is required.
Faculty and staff don’t have an opinion on the matter. They left the University long ago. Or died.
Everybody here dies. Nobody here notices.
Meanwhile the monkey wreaks unmitigated havoc. How are we to negotiate his hambone antics? Right now he’s tearing through campus throwing bricks through all of the windows that have not yet been shattered by drunken students, deranged faculty, choleric staff and bored vandals.
“That’s no bonobo,” remarks the President, and takes refuge in a bomb shelter . . .
. . . inevitable postapocalyptic dreamscape clinched by the flexed biceps of Logic. When reality gets hairy, the best medicine is Hard Science. Hard Math in particular. Consider Euclidean geometry, namely the Pythagorean theorem—my theorem of choice:
a2 + b2 = c2
But even the monkey can perceive the holes in this pre-Socratic-addled configuration. Euler’s Identity presents a greater challenge:
eiπ + 1 = 0
Generally it makes sense. I understand at least three-fourths of it at first glance and can envision certain integers and combinations of integers flowing down the fiberoptic waveguides of its machinery. Integers stall periodically when they pass through the sphincter of 27a2d, and the final, bottommost plateau is deceptively conspicuous in terms of its moral stance. A bird’s eye view, however, reveals that the equation is a hoax, a kind of anaphoric pop melody that tries to be smarter that the summation of the dumb molecules that comprise its bawling physique. The monkey excitedly concurs . . . and then dies. It loses its footing and falls twenty stories down the shaft of the bell tower into the cellar. One wonders if the primate committed suicide or if its demise was a bona fide accident. Unexpectedly aggrieved (yet admittedly relieved), the administrators go downstairs, gather in a wide circle around the corpse, and wait for somebody to say something nice, sipping spoiled wine from makeshift decanters.