After hearing people of the X religion wail about the travails of being with those of religion Y, and men of culture C whine about the burdens of living beside men of
the D culture, a chap mused: “Hell, they don’t know what discomfort & annoyance are
until they’ve been an enlightened man forced to live amongst the ordinary.”
(Then he nudged his self and laughed at this private bit of humor.)
 
 
 
 

Notes a guy:
“The neat thing you get from drinking is an artificial sense of excitement
and anticipation  –  not totally unlike what routine thoughts can do
to your consciousness.”
 
 
 
 

One man was more impressive theoretically than he was actually.
    “Shouldn’t that be: many men are?”
Probably.
 
 
 
 

Sighs one guy: “If I had invested only five thousand dollars in my consciousness
back in 1984, today I’d be a dolt with five thousand dollars put aside.”
 
 
 
 

“The best thing about cooked spinach is that you can chew on a strand of it forever.”
    (“Hey –   I’ve got some mental scenes just like that.”)
 
 
 
 

Insider’s Story.
If the name of someone he’d just met were brought up, one man would habitually say only: “An impressive fellow,” and finally someone followed up by asking: “Really?”  –
–  come on readers!  –   you know not, really!
(“If you will excuse me for saying so: publishing items of interest only to some select group of insiders doesn’t seem the way to run a publicly accessible web site purportedly reporting on news of significance to everyone.
Please consider this to be my well intentioned: ‘Ha-rumph!’
Thank you for your time.”)

    “The smashing feature of being a criminal in this place is that
      you also get to be the police.”
 
 
 
 

After a frustrating episode of attempted conversation with a semi-illiterate,
a man said to his self:
“It’s hell trying to listen to one who is not verbally given,”
and his consciousness instantly injected:
“Well it's nice for once to hear you speak of me in other than disparaging tones.”
 
 
 
 

Filling his apartment with video games; DVDs; CD’s and lots of books, a man mused:
“If I keep myself sufficiently distracted for just another thirty years or so,
I’ll be dead before I know it and won’t have to worry any more about waking-up.”
 
 
 
 

One man offered to send his self free information about the world’s most
sleep-inducing bed. “Man! – did you ever buy the wrong mailing list:
you couldn’t’ve picked a human in less need of such a product than moi.”
 
 
 
 

In the front of the most recent issue of Spiritual Uplift magazine
appears this message from its Editor.
“Dear Readers: As you may recall, last year we held a True Story competition,
and now, as directed by an injunction obtained by one of the entrants,
we present his entry.

When the stranger stepped uninvited into his yard, the man pulled a .38 and said:
“The local rules say that I have to shoot you.”
 And as the man (now on his knees) pleaded for his life, the homeowner finally said:
“Well, there is that one thing you can do that would allow me to not kill you.”
    “Anything  –   what?  –   what?” begged the trespasser.
“You have to suck your own dick.”
    “Oh! –   I can do that  –  no problem; I can do that.”
And puzzled the man said: “You seem awfully sure of that?!”
     “Yes  –  I’ve done it before.”
“What!? –  you’ve come onto my property before?!”
     “No  –  that’s not what I meant.”
                                              The End.

 Taking a clue from the work patterns of certain radio personalities,
some mornings (just as a joke) when he first faces his self in the bathroom mirror,
one guy will flash a broad smile, assume the classic announcer’s voice and say:
“And filling in for me today will be...”
(And sometimes  –  beyond his control  –  is followed by the aside: “Don’t I wish.”)
 
 
 
 

Stamped (or maybe it’s embossed) on the custom baloney logs one man hands out
in lieu of business cards, is the slogan: “Warthog To The Stars,”
(which he admits, few people appreciate,
which he further attributes to the lack of any stars having yet received one).
(“You’ve got to match your show and audience.”
    “Except,” injects thoughts, “when you’re me  –   then you don’t have to do diddley;
      all you have to do is  –   show up!”)
 
 
 
 

This e-mail just in:
“Regarding that story you reprinted earlier from some spiritual type magazine:
was it really about consciousness and the thoughts that normally intrude therein?
(Or did I miss something?)
Yours,” etc.
 
 
 
 

A man who had become well known as a spiritual guru admitted there was no
basis for it other than him having made his self well known as a spiritual guru.
(He did note that the same situation is true for every other guru.)
 
 
 
 

Proclaimed the public voice:
“Of supreme importance in your trek to popularity is the telling of amusing,
mildly embarrassing stories about yourself.”
(No follow-up reminder proved necessary.)
 
 
 
 

“Okay –   I may not know diddley  –   but I’m sure familiar with his brother squat.”
 
 
 
 

Conventionally conscioused people love to talk about their self  –
since no one else is interested in doing so.
 
 
 
 

The substitute warden expressed his self:
“There should be a law that wimpy cows be restricted to singing wimpy songs,”
and the C Section guard whispered to him:
    “No need  –  genetic norms have already taken care of that.”
“Damn!  –  I’s hopin’ that’d be: cultural norms;
that way it don’t all seem so predetermined and finalized.”

“There’s only one way to get full  –   over eat.”
    “There’s only one way to satisfy the thirst for alcohol  –   drink too much.”
            “And there’s only one way to get your fill of sex  –  fuck ‘til you pass out.”

A hot email arrived just as we were putting today's News in its crib:
"I still want to know how come I was allowed to read your daily writings for damn near three years
without ever being told that it was full of things that had practical application.             It's not funny.
Yours," etc.