MOTHER: "Now Daddy, you have to let Johnny decide. You haven't let him slip a word in edgewise and he's probably just busting' his sides waiting to tell us that he wants to become a doctor or a lawyer or something which will make us proud. What is it son don't be afraid, tell Mummy and Daddy what you want to be when you grow up."

GRADUATE: "I wanna hide."

FATHER: "What kind of money is there in it, son?"

MOTHER: "What kind of profession is that, Johnny?"

GRADUATES "I wanna be a hermit."

WHAM. "Identity Diffusion" sets in. It's one of those modern diseases. But, like all modern maladjustments it has a solution. PRESTO: you don't know which of your multiple identities you will choose, which of your many fortuitous opportunities you will take advantage of? BINGO: we put you into one of our sanitized, civilized, compartimentalized Eriksonian boxes and christen you "Identity Diffusion." ZAP: you now have an identity which is the state of not knowing just what your identity is.

"Doc, I goota dose of id diff, take a whiff, whacha gonna do, put me in the zoo?" Prescription: "Two years at the front will make a man of you, give you a sense of direction, purpose, and leadership skills." (The New York Times is helpful here and notes that an overwhelming majority of those who have been under fire say that they have benefitted from the experience and are more confident because of it. Note, that there is no mention that the poll was administered only to those who survived.)

Oh you old cynic you. You pulverized potato, you spineless spinach, you mustachioed pistachio, who do you think you are? What gives you the right, let me see your papers, who gave you permission, where is your petition, you have no commission, I bet I know your mission. It's an ill wind brings you into town, and now with your new gown I guess it's legal.

Oh you Red radically pink professor of promiscuity, delector of delights, collector of the sights, defector of all rights, rejection of the fight, defecating deities galore. And what's more you know the score. You turkey.

And from whence this outrageous outburst of outgoings? The flushings of my toilet training stage that now descend upon my head, the leavings of an age.