Clyde should never have left mother's household. Who was this Freud anyway, that bearded, bitter looking man with the cigar, who hang (why, his photograph of course!) on the wall behind Doctor LeGrande's conspiciously untidy desk and was worshipped by her like an idol?
Some smart ass Jew from Austria with a dirty mind who read too much Greek tragedies, that's what he was! Oedipus, Schmoedipus – mother and he should have stayed together, especially after father's accident! They would have overcome their estrangement and, in the long term, grown even closer together as they had been before. They would deepen their bond, their relationship would mature and ripen and bear wonderful fruits. They would have so much fun together, but meaningful, grown up fun! They would spend their mornings cutting out obituaries from the local newspaper and their afternoons diskussing sophisticated crime novels, or perhaps... even committing some crimes themselves. Not necessarily sophisticated crimes, but no petty crimes either. Grand crimes. Stealing limousines, robbing state banks, killing policemen. The press would call them „Mommy & Clyde“ and there would be three hot meals every day and fresh and ironed underwear every morning, either!

dass Mutti zu dämlich und kleinbürgerlich war, ihre vegane Küche ordentlich zu substituieren und ihn somit langfristig nicht wenig schädigen würde. Da pfiff er dann doch lieber auf das romantische Verbrecherdasein und ernährte sich lieber ayurvedisch.