The CBS Desiring-Machine

One of the more lucid explanatory passages in Deleuze and Guattari’s canonical brain-buster Anti-Oedipus is their illustration of a schizophrenic milk drinker, a clarifying example offered to thin out the butterfatty complexities of the famous “desiring machine.”  As D & G observe, “Desiring machines are binary machines, obeying a binary law or set of rules governing associations: one machine is always coupled with another.  The productive synthesis, the production of production, is inherently connective in nature.” A glass of milk thus schizo-rendered through reverse-engineering: “the anus-machine and the intestine-machine, the intestine-machine and the stomach-machine, the stomach-machine and the mouth-machine, the mouth-machine and the flow of milk of a herd of dairy cattle (‘and then…and then…and then…’) (page 59 if you think I’m lying).  This decision to recast the psychic universe as a Rube Goldberg network of interlocking machinery helps D/G offer a more productive model of desire (as opposed to the Freudian/Lacanian emphasis on the repressed absences that structure psychoanalytic models). In a world liberated from the implanted repressions of psychoanalysis, a new call to “schizoanalysis” would, in theory at least, open us all to ever mutating calls to oceanic desire washing through, across, over, underneath, in, and out of the Body without Organs, a “body” as yet unspoken and uninscribed by repressive regimes of power and pleasure.


While it is always difficult to imagine schizophrenic phenomenology, especially as we cling to our own putative notions of personal sanity, I believe CBS has come as close as possible to schematizing the dynamics of a desiring-machine in their 9 pm comedy block on Monday nights.  Considered separately, neither 2 Broke Girls nor Mike and Molly is particularly impressive—just two boilerplate proscenium sitcoms.  But when fused, grafted by undifferentiated promo-tissues at the half-hour break, they create a productive synthesis in the form of an endless bio-canal of alimentary, excretory, and sexual peristalsis, an endless cycling of eating, licking, puking, shitting, pissing, rubbing, sucking, and fucking. 


In one series, two “girls” dream of someday operating a cupcake factory while simultaneously engaging in ancillary fantasies about occupying various positions in an endless daisy chain of fuckisuckitude.  Each joke involves an allusion to mouths, vaginas, and/or anuses pulsating in a perpetual state of receptivity, ever vigilant for the possibility of coupling for a cream-pie punchline. They are a couple of cupcakes who consume cupcakes, and thus themselves, in an unending orgy of sugar made flesh, flesh made sugar.  

In the new season, blondbrokegirl has even started a relationship with a handsome young man who owns his own candy store, thus doubling down on the cupcake fantasy of perpetually plugged sugar holes.  Brunettebrokegirl supports the relationship because it portends unlimited access to candy, providing a momentary diversion from already unlimited access to her own masturbatory baking.  In another episode, brunettebrokegirl meets blondbrokegirl’s father for the first time…in prison…and immediately becomes visibly disorientated at the thoughts of having spontaneous carceral intercourse with him, an incest fantasy so barely displaced as to endanger its status as fantasy.

Jack is Boring, Boring, Boring.


After Lauren told me I was “boring,” not once, not twice, but THREE times, I was pretty devastated.  Dumping me is one thing.  I’ve been dumped before and I’ll probably be dumped again. But to be called “boring” not once, not twice, but THREE times at dinner was really a bit much, even for Lauren, who now that I look back on it really is a first-class bitch.  Hear that Lauren?  You’re a bitch…a bitch…a BITCH!

Lauren dumping me.
I guess I should have seen it coming. I’m not sure why Lauren and I were even dating in the first place.  Sometimes I think she misheard me when we made our first date.  We met at this club in midtown and she asked me where I worked.  I said “Golden Jacks,” which is this sports bar I own in Trenton.  But after we broke up, my friend Jason said she probably misheard me and  thought I worked at Goldman Sachs.  That would make sense, because later on when I took her to see Golden Jacks she seemed horrified, like everything and everyone in the place was caked in shit or something.