One humid day while tossing back a couple of cold ones with some friends,
the head of one planet’s religion was asked if he actually believed
there was anything to all the teachings and rituals he represented and he replied:
“No not really -- but:
life itself being such a scam I figure -- what’s one more con game gonna matter.”
 
 
 

Being fully civilized is in developing indoor plumbing,
and then pondering its potential psychic damage.
Hormones giveth, and spur neurons to help taketh away;
then for some reason, they drive neurons to wonder if they did the right thing.
(Anyone who doesn’t find the thought world of man more fun than a bushel of baboons had to be born with a lemon up their ass.)
 
 
 

Wrapping a seemingly sincere arm around his son’s shoulder,
the father turned them both facing the sunset and said:
“Kid: a man who talks nice -- is nice,”
and the younger fumbled in his pockets for a few furlongs, then replied:
    “That’s no rule or nuthin’ -- right?! -- just somethin’ you made up?!”
“Yep -- but don’t it sound nice.”
 
 
 

The difference between a realized man’s understanding of life, and that of the ordinary is almost as great as between what he originally figured the understanding would be, and what it turned out to be.
 
 
 

And someone asked The Professor if the life of the individual man
paralleled the life of humanity collectively, and he said he believed it was
probably the other way around (?!?).....or perhaps the opposite of that (?!).....or maybe
they were un related, well, at any rate,
he said he was just delighted to BE The Professor.
In one kingdom the way frogs indemnify themselves against warts
is through the free wheeling use of honorific titles.
(Another view of how & why the continual describing of what kind of person you are has such......such......curious results.)
“And now, punks and punkettes; holding down the number one slot in this week’s
Top Ten Hits is the song: “The Dumb Look Up To Everyone,”
performed by the new hot group: What Choice Do We Have.
 
 
 

And to prove the point:
one man, when he discovered he was losing his teeth -- got a toupee.
And another guy’s last request was that he not be buried in the same box as his mind.
(Hey! -- if you're pretty well certain that Saturday’s eventually a'coming --
what’s the harm in getting a little excited on Wednesday?!)
And apparently to prove one of its sometimes oblique points,
one city declared: “All must die, and all must pay! -- but not necessarily in that order.”
And about their ruler, one neural citizen asked a second:
“Who died and made him king?” which sent the latter into spasms of laughter.
In Lilliput they don’t have to bother with elections or appointments --
what the hell would they mean anyway?!
(And one man’s mind moaned: “Oh, it’s good to be king!”
    “Yeah, but of what!” someone retorted --
“There, there,” cooed the mind sweetly: “Don’t get testy.”)
 
 
 

Everyone is born in the city;
everyone is raised (as is proper) by the city;
everything a man knows he learned from the city;
the only home he can imagine is the city;
the certain man however, one day suddenly -- in full surprised sincerity --
says to himself: “What am I doing here?!”
And to underline the point: one man who found himself lame --
cut off his hands least he be tempted them to employ.
(“I assume you mean: in-the-same-old-foolishness?!”
Yeah -- something like that.)
 
 
 

Lounging in his inner faux hospice, one man rumicized:
“It's interesting being only partially dead -- same as with being just partly stupid,
as opposed I assume, to not being dead or dumb at all --
or at least not thinking you are.”
 
 
 

When one man referred to something that clearly occurred as being “controversial” another guy mused: “How can reality be, controversial?” then a third chap thought: "But what else can it be? -- how else can you explain men’s avoidance of it.”
(And the city huffed to one man: “If you’re not going ahead and peacefully be
what I made you out to be, just -- forget it!”)
 
 
 

Since you can live without making any conscious effort,
those who would live more must constantly make some,
and from this fact arise the many mystical practices men have concocted, when all
that is really required is any unusual pressure applied to your nervous system.
 
 
 

Near the city financial district a street corner philosopher proclaimed to passers by:
“If our outdated ideas rotted and smelled as does over ripe meat,
we would all be holding our noses,”
and one sauntering citizen mused: “I thought we were.”
 
 
 

“A good tip to remember,” offers one man:
“If, in the midst of a hot intellectual discussion, your insight peters out --
start making references to knowledge’s frequent detrimental effect on morality.
Long ago and near away did men realize that it is easier to appear good than smart.
And you know what: it takes an extraordinary intelligent creature
to be able to ride that hollow horse for lo these five thousand years.”