THE CONDENSED HISTORY
OF HAIR 

By Jason Wilder Konschak

This one goes out to all the suckas out there.
“Suckas: I’ll tell you what – losing my mind’s been incredibly time-consuming. By effectively 
driving me ape shit, with your ‘answer this, smart ass’ and your ‘Dr. W, I have an embarrassing 
question,’ you’ve eaten many hours – churned them into crap – tried to give them back.
“I know what you’re up to. Life has skinned your crotch with a potato peeler, and it’s 
cathartic to drive someone else totally toasters. It makes a sucka feel good. It makes a sucka 
feel mighty. It makes a sucka feel he got a say in this shit-hole. All in all, it makes a sucka feel 
real. If I were a sucka, maybe I’d endeavor to turn others into crazy fools too.
“But I ain’t no sucka, sucka: I’m the docta, dammit. So quit hassling me.”
These suckas make it so I gots to repeat myself: “I’m a doctor Jim – not a crazy fool! I make 
crazy fools sane and well-adjusted, like me, Dr, Wilder. I’m a doctor Jim – not a crazy fool! I make 
crazy fools sane and well-adjusted, like me, Dr, Wilder.”
Nonetheless, there’s tension in my head. It readies to snap. It warns me: the hours remaining 
before the bust are few. So few, you could count them on the fingers of a retired shop teacher. 
So few, if there’s anything left to straighten out these suckas and crazy fools, I’d better get 
crackin, before I’m totally cracked.
Problem is, the rubber band is already stretched awfully thin. Pluck it. It plays a glass-
shattering high-note. The rubber band is out of tune. In tune with itself: out of tune with the 
world.
But, I haven’t got another brain, so let’s get crackin all the same.
Pluck away!
Crack.
Some bizarre shapes break out:


Q
Mr. mod monkey writes: “Dr. W, you seem to think anything can be fixed by throwing sex at it. At 
college, I find piles of sexy women, with the cure for what ails me, but I can’t find even one that’s 
anywhere near as intellectually stimulating as a baggy full of partially digested oatmeal. Why’s 
that?” –Horny-as-Hell-at-Hampshire.

A
Horn-dog, there are two possible reasons for this difficulty. Either, 1) You’re too into ogling their 
gonzagas to hear the dazzling stuff they’re saying, or; 2) You don’t have an intellect, lame-o. 
(cha-ching, the doctor scores brownie points with the female crowd). (ka-koink, he loses them by 
bragging about it).


Q
Merrill Miss asks: “Dr. Wilder, I bought a laser. I shined it in a mirror, and now I only have one eye. 
So why are the Care Bear Cousins always left out of Care Bear history?” –Cycloptic-in-C-hall.

A
 Because they suck, lame-o. Go buy a patch.




Q
Yoho the Hippo writes: “Dr. W, I’m what you’d call a “full-figured” guitarist. Get it straight: I’m not 
fat. I’m cuddly. And it’s all genetic. Yet, I find something strange keeps happening when I’m 
strumming my musical tool. After tearing-up on “Love Love Me Do” for several hours, I start 
looking at my guitar. It’s so beautiful, and fragrant, and lush, and chocolatey … I mean, my 
question is, if I get hungry while playing my guitar, should I eat the top three frets?” –Groovy-in-
Greenwich.

A
Good question, Yo-han. Many Americans crave material possessions put into their mouth. I 
must admit, it doesn’t arise in guitarists all so often. Not nearly as often as in tuba players. Or 
bagpipe players. Or children named Bing. But, it happens enough to warrant some honest 
answers. If you’re hungry, don’t resort to eating your frets. Unless your instrument is made of 
cheese, your amp’s a better meal. If you don’t have one, eat your chubby fingers, you lumax. Yum 
yum.


Q
Anonymous e-mails, “We are a pair of neo-Nazi Aryan lesbians, looking to reproduce. What color 
are your eyes?” –Deutchland-Dykes-from-Dakin.

A
THAT’S AWFUL. Yet …. No. NONONONONONONONONONO. It’s horrible! It’s the most offensive 
thing I’ve ever …. NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO. Blue.



Q
Dr. Wilder, I have a fairly unusual malady. It is caused by a virus, which I caught from the Brazilian 
economic crisis. You see, every evening, around quarter to six, my right foot turns into a giant 
squid. It doesn’t do it suddenly. It does it gradually, and makes stretching sounds, like an 
inflating balloon. By ten after, its tentacles measure 42 inches. That’s longer than my bootlaces. 
That’s a damn big squid.
	Now, I don’t really mind the squid so much. I named him Reginold. I have a large aquarium I 
wear as a shoe. I’m a vegan, and he’s happy to eat tofu. The problem is, when squirting ink at the 
cat, Reginold severely stained my white carpet. Is there any way to get squid ink out of my 
carpet? And for that matter, out of the cat?

A
No. 




Q
 Dr. Wilder, I’m afraid of you. Is that normal?


A
 Yes. All my ex-girlfriends are. 




Crack.