One man made note to himself: “Often I desperately feel the urge to
kick the hell out of something  --  but I don’t know what!”  --   then suddenly one day,
the liberating response to this puzzling sensation came to him:
“The thing I’m wanting to kick is the thing that’s wanting to do the kicking!”  --
and as simple as may sound these fifteen common words,
the personal recognition of the reality they represent
will be the most memorable day in the certain man’s life.
 
 

Another neat feature of DoingTheThing is that
    you have the world's only hobby that can’t be described.
 
 

        Only the poor hate wealth, and the dumb, dumbpidity.
 
 

            There are two flavors available: either be dead, or act like you are.
 
 
 

The stages of the certain man: first you replace man’s common, public myths
with extraordinary, private ones of your own creation;
second stage: you replace your private ones with, well  --   you know.
 
 
 

A man who writes a daily column for a newspaper one day wrote a story about a man who writes a daily column for a newspaper in which he ridicules the words and deeds of ordinary people, and who noted that the best part of what he does is that it keeps people from noticing that he is guilty of the same things he condemns in others,
and a reader wrote and said: “You dummy!  don’t you realize that what you said
could clearly apply to you!”  and he replied: “No?!............................................you think?”
 
 

One man explains his curious professional name by noting that
he originally intended it to be, “Mevin  -- The Magnificent Magician,”
but that, Maggot showed up first in the dictionary.
The life of the would-be, unusual is not an easy one,
or as they say at Super Mammal Airlines: “Elephants don’t have carry on luggage.”
The smaller the situation  --  the more racket it tries to stir up about itself,
and one man’s lungs said: “Don’t anyone make the brain think that I said that!”
Men are the carriers  --   words are the virus.
From one outside perspective, here is how things should’ave gone:
followers should be serious, and leaders (priests, presidents, etc) should never be:
that’s how it should’ave gone  --  that’s how it could’ave gone --  hell,
for all you know, that’s how it does go.
Note: careful not to mistakenly apply this to the relationship between
you and your thoughts,
and one chap began to sing:
    “I will follow me,
      follow me as long as I don’t go no where.”
The unheralded benefit of letting your full intellectual capacity be pulled along by the thoughts that effortlessly pass through your brain is  --  hell!  --  it’s too obvious to say!
What is commonly accepted to be, The History Of Man, is to the more conscious:
A Bacterium’s Perspective Of The Hippo On Which It Resides.
Caution: don’t slip up and compare this to the situation twixt the publicly available thoughts in your head and the individual mind that’s also in there............... somewhere.
Only idiots and those who know what they are doing will
attempt the impossible.......with a straight face......and no apologies going-in.
And a father suggested to a son: “You would do yourself a favor
to go easy on criticizing other people’s ideas, remember:
most people can only think whatever life makes ‘em think  --
how do you hold a canary guilty for its feathers?”
The supernatural director of one city’s ongoing drama barked:
“Let all of our villains incessantly stare!”  -- which took care of that little production.
And there is a man who has developed a set of exercises which,
when done religiously, benefit no known part of a person’s being
(it’s rumored he is in line for a high level city appointment).
And something not shown on any official urban maps, but very useful to know,
and remember is:
    thoughts --   local;
    consciousness  --  universal (or at least: out-of-town  --  WAY out of town).
The way you instantly can tell you're dealing with routine ideas is that
they are fed to you  --   one word after another.
“Pa pa, is that why some men decline dinner in the city?”
      “And the same reason that fleas can fly at half price  --  but have no where to go,
and in fact, let me expound on something I earlier said:
you should approach cautiously, calling others stupid
for everyone is just as sharp as life wants them to be.”
“Does that include me and thee?”
      “That is another story entirely, my boy   --   in – tire – er - lee.”
 
 
 

From the full orchestra and choir proudly blared the Overture:
“Words will not  --
    words shall not  --
       words can not  --    fail us now!”
which brought on stage the lead tenor:
“Extraordinary  --   ephemeral  --  neural connections,
are better, sweet gwendolyne, than –
no ephemerals at all,”
(as under his breath muttered the bass:
“You are only awake and enlightened  --  a moment at a time,”
      “And when is that?” whispered the alto,
“Only at the times you realize you were just not,”
       “That’s a hard score to swallow,” replied the alto,
“No one ever said that life on the stage is an easy one for the mind  --  for by its nature, it wants to sing in the dark --  and be part of the faceless audience for itself  --
not in the spotlight for all to see,”
      “All?!?  --  who’s, ‘all’?”
“Itself! --  you nitwit!”)
Roaches learned their survival-by-stealth skills from  --  guess who?  --  yep,
the human mind,
and what the certain man does is  --  unnaturally  --  drag, force,
drive his brain’s routine, mechanically running consciousness out into a
normally unused space where it can suddenly be seen for what it really is  --
which cannot be described to you profitably in advance,
for, what-it-is is more a case of, what-it-does  --
the role it plays in the life of man when it is not engaged in essential activity: