The Funeral of Oxo Marx

Oxo Marx's funeral was a small, sad affair, attended only by his mother, who was blind, deaf, dumb and not very good at crossword puzzles; his sister Oxa, who was on an oxygen mask, not because she needed it, but because she thought it was hip; his almost girlfriend Priscilla, who was now considering returning to the circus; his landlord, Willy Man, who had found the self-beheaded Oxo and considered him a pretty good tenant; and a mysterious woman in black, whose face was obscured by a thick veil. 

The funeral was lead by the Good Reverend Ricardo, who Oxo's mother trusted with her life, and most of her savings.  His speech was short, and to the point.  "Let's be honest, people.  Oxo wasn't an overly popular man.  And, for good reasons.  His breath was rank, his teeth had a fuzzy film, he made objectional comments on a routine basis, and besides all that he never liked reality tv.  There were many things wrong with Oxo, and the world is probably better off without him.  He beheaded himself, which to my knowledge has never been done before, this is itself an accomplishment, and probably his only one, so let us savour it.  Uh . . . yeah, that's about it I suppose.  Does anyone want to say a few words?" 

Oxo's sister Oxa raised her hand wearily.  The Good Reverend Ricardo stood aside as she staggered to the podium, and took three minutes to arrange her oxygen mask perfectly.  Then, she cleared her throat, leaned down to the microphone and said:  "Phlegm.  Formica.  Saliva.  Bochi.  Wang Doodle.  Syphon.  Thank you.  These are.  Just some words.  I like to say.  Thank you." 

Oxa shuffled back to her seat and noisily rearranged her oxygen mask.  There was some awkward silence before the Good Reverend Ricardo made his way back to the podium.  Just before he spoke for the final time he turned away and took a nip from his flask.  "Well,"  he said, shrugging his shoulders.  "I guess that's it.  It actually took longer than I expected.  Who wants to get drunk?" 

The mourners wandered away from the grave, except for the mysterious woman in black, who lingered by the grave stone until the cemetery was empty, then she leaned down and whispered to the stone:  "I just like to go to funerals." 

Then she walked away, went home, and ate some white toast.

The Problem of the Pimple

Oxo Marx awoke on a Monday morning with a large blemish on his left cheek.  He felt it the moment his eyes opened; the muscles moving to let light into his brain sent a sharp, fierce pain throughout his face, and he let out a small sound: -Gahaaa.  

Sitting up, within his sheets, he sought it out with his fingertips, delicately feeling out the soft flesh below his eye like a blindman might.  When he touched the pimple another shockwave of pain fluttered through his face, causing his eyes to blink a few times without his permission.  A tear rose to attention in his left eye, but didn't have the heart to jump. 

-Goddammit, Oxo hissed through clenched teeth.  -A pimple.  A fucking pimple. 

He was angry not only because it was Monday, a day he routinely loathed, but also because he was meant to have his first date with Priscilla later than evening.  He had bought tickets for the circus.  He didn't know if Priscilla liked the circus anymore, but she had been an elephant rider for years, and then quit one summer day to become a dental hygienist.  Just like that.  He hoped she still liked the circus.  He hoped she wouldn't notice his pimple.  

The pimple, not his pimple.  He wasn't going to think of it as his, he had nothing to do with it, apart from the fact that it had decided to nest on his face. 

-Goddammit, he hissed again, and got out of bed.  

As he walked to the bathroom to survey the damage, he let out a fantastically long and loud fart.  Feeling slightly better, he faced his reflection in the mirror.  It was worse than he thought.  The pimple was about the size of a quarter, red, pulsating, a drop of pus just starting to ooze from the head.  'A decidedly ugly pimple', he thought to himself.  He laughed then.  -As if there's an attractive pimple.  he said to himself. 

It was then that the pimple spoke. 

YOU'RE NOT SO HOT YERSELF, YA KNOW.  it said.  He believed he even saw the pore open and close slightly as it spoke.  The movement was painful, and uninvited.  It was, to be quite frank, insulting.  He was not used to being addressed by blemishes, and chose to ignore the remark.  

Oxo turned on the water in the shower, and when it had reached the desired temperature, he stepped inside.  The water smacked the pimple immediately, jolting him again, and Oxo turned his back to the hot stream.  He cursed slightly under his breath, and the pimple throbbed.  He felt it was gearing up to speak again, or had he imagined that?  No blemish had ever spoken to him before, and he had never heard of a blemish speaking to anyone else.  He had just gotten out of bed, after all, perhaps its the was the remains of a dream.  A hypnogogic hallucination . . . or hypnopompic maybe, he could never remember which was which. 

As he stood in the shower, feebly washing his chest with a sudsy rag, he went over what he had heard the pimple say.  "You're not so hot yourself, you know."  it had said.  He washed the back of his neck.  He knew he wasn't the best looking guy in the world, that's precisely why getting the pimple in the first place had angered him so much.  He really didn't need the pimple to point it out to him.  He washed his left arm.  Oxo had never been particularly attractive, in fact he still harboured the memory of a girl on the bus telling him point blank "You're ugly" when he was fifteen.  He hated that memory.  He hated the memory, and hated that he remembered it so vividly, when he had forgotten so many other memories.  He wasn't certain if the memories he had forgotten were good ones or bad ones, since he had forgotten them, but he secretly always assumed they were good ones.  It would be just like him to only remember bad memories.  He washed his genitals.  The thing about that memory that bothered him most was what he had ended up responded at the time.  He didn't like to think about it.  Oxo washed the crack of his ass.  Witty comebacks had never been his strong suit, nor had quick thinking on his feet.  When she had told him he was ugly he hadn't known what to say, he was so blown away by the sheer naked honesty of the comment.  He responded,  quietly, "I know." and quickly taken a seat, his ears and neck turning red, and burning hot.  Oxo washed the back of his neck again. 

He thought of the memory again, saw the girl's face, her casual indifference, and started to become angry again, after fifteen years.  He would love to meet the girl again.  He would love to see her on the street, or on the bus, and have something to say back to her.  Oxo was mindlessly running the rag back and forth across his chest now.  He imagined bumping into her on the street and saying "Oh I remember you, you're the girl who said I was ugly.  Well, did I mention that you have bad breath?"  No no no. 

He slapped the sudsy rag down to the bathtub.  What a terrible retort.  Even after fifteen years he couldn't think of anything good to say back to her.  Say something hurtful, something that would make her think about the comment later, much later.  Maybe for the rest of her life.  Tell her that she has fat thighs or that she has . . . he paused, remembering.  It occurred to Oxo that he couldn't actually remember the girl's face anymore, he could only remember his memory of it.  She had blonde hair and blue eyeshadow, that much he knew, but would he be able to recognize her on the street if he saw her now?  He didn't think so. 

Oxo turned the water off, and stood dripping.  He was going to be damned if he would spend another fifteen years wondering if he could have responded more appropriately to his pimple.  Without drying, he stepped out of the bathtub and faced the mirror.  He wiped away the fog that steam had left on the surface and looked at the pimple.  It still throbbed. 

-Say something, smartass.  he said to it.  It throbbed on, but made no reply.  He looked down at it, another single drop of pus starting to ooze out of the head.  -C'mon smart guy.  Say something smart.  I dare you. 

The pus dribbled out of the head, but still no reply was forthcoming. 

Oxo leaned in, toward the mirror, almost pressing his face against the reflection.  -Say something you little fuck, I know you want to . . . come on! 

And then the pimple spoke again.  The pore opened and closed as it said YOU'RE UGLY.  then began to giggle. 

Oxo stared at it, dumbstruck.  He had expected it to repeat its original comment.  Standing there, still dripping wet and nude, Oxo began to shake with rage.  Again!  Again with that comment, and now from a pimple.  A fucking pimple.  That was the last straw.  

He was getting rid of the pimple.  The pimple was going to be gone, that's all there was to it.  One way or another. 

Oxo stalked off into his apartment, slammed open a closet, and began to rummage through a box in the bottom.  He thought he could hear the pimple ask what he was doing, but kept lifting objects up, feeling beneath them and then dropping them back down and moving on.  Finally, his finger tips found what he was looking for. 

Oxo Marx pulled out his father's saw.  -HA!  he cried out in triumph.  He walked into the kitchen, took out the cutting board he had never used, and placed it onto the counter.  He turned his head, laid it onto the cutting board, and began to saw at his neck in long quick strokes.  In three full slices his head came off from the stump and rolled into his sink.  

In this way, the problem was solved.

Origins of Tarot

I have it on good authority from my contact on the 'inside' that the first recorded tarot deck was created by a Mrs. Eugenia Fish in the 800s (CE) but that she based the cards on an older Atlantean deck which was common knowledge at the time - the differences that Mrs. Fish brought to what is known now as the more or less common deck was the addition of the Fool card, which she included out of respect for her dead husband Roland Fish the Idiot of Ford, who was crushed beneath the largest crouton in history, which was being created for Emperor Charlemagne, to be added to the World's Biggest Salad, which was intended to be one of the Wonders of the World, but never really took off.

In addition to the adding of the Fool, Mrs. Fish also cut out some of the less popular Atlantean trumps, which were 8 - "The Hangnail", 12 - "Gut Rot", and the infinitely unpopular 15 - "Halitosis". I think most modern tarot scholars would admit that her changes were prudent.

Mrs. Fish didn't only invent modern tarot either, she also invented Backgammon, Monopoly, Strip poker, and Battleship. She truly was a Renaissance woman, before the Renaissance.

Modern Sisyphus

One night Quiche invited four friends over for some drinks and smoking.  She invited Tab Matsui, who always worried about people and her boyfriend Don Mosher who was always worried about animals.  She also invited Carmonita Scarfoni, who was always worried about life, and Toni Carboni, who was always worried about death. 

Drinks were poured, spliffs were lit, and conversation ensued.   Tab never took spliffs overly well and soon began to worry about the people who were being afflicted by natural disasters.  "there's nothing you can do to prevent something like that," she said, and began to weep.  Don, her boyfriend said "think about the animals though, they truly have no idea what is happening.  it must all be a mystery to them.  just like everything to us." 

"what's a mystery?"  Quiche asked.  Carmonita said, "life is a mystery.  how can we know what the point is?" 

Toni said, "you can't know the point until you've died.  it's too profound."  Quiche began to giggle.  Don turned to her, his drink splashing on the tabletop.  "how can you laugh, Quiche?  terrible things happen all the time.  what's so funny?"  Quiche spoke through a bouquet of laughter:  "everything." 

Tab asked:  "you think it's funny that we don't know the meaning of life?" 

Quiche answered, "no." 

"well then, what's so funny?"  Don asked.  Quiche turned to him.  She smiled.  "i find it funny that you all believe there is a meaning to the universe.  there isn't."  Carmonita sat forward.  "how can you dare to say that?  if there isn't a meaning then there is no point in living!" 

Quiche asked,  "no?"  and began to giggle again.  Toni sat very quietly, and finally said "Quiche is right.  there is no point.  if you think about it, it's perfectly obvious.  there is no meaning to life." 

Tab began to weep again.  "well then what are we living for?"  Don answered:  "nothing."  

Carmonita's face lit up.  "we should kill ourselves!"  Toni turned to Carmonita.  "yes, you're right.  it's the only logical response to an illogical universe." 

As the four prepared to kill themselves Don noticed Quiche was lighting up another joint.  "what are you doing, Quiche?  aren't you going to kill yourself with us?"  Quiche laughed again. "no, i have no intention of killing myself." 

Tab asked,  "but why?  it was you that made us realize the universe has no point." 

Quiche shrugged.  "so?"  was all she replied. 

Don turned away from Quiche.  "forget her, she's just afraid.  come on, let's get on with it, i can't stand this world another second."  and he, and the other three killed themselves, and fell back away from the table.  Their feet stuck up in the smoky air. 

Quiche sat back, gathered their weed with hers, took another haul on the spliff, and said "this is the life . . ."

Bean

Phantly Roy Bean was a saloon-keeper, and arbitrary judge who called himself "The Law West of the Pecos". Discordian legend tells that Judge Roy Bean held court sessions in his saloon along the Rio Grande River in a desolate stretch of the Chihuahuan Desert of West Texas.

As a youth Judge Bean was accosted on a stretch of road by a group of bandits, (or native americans, legends differ on the details) he was attacked ruthlessly and left for dead amongst the cacti. He survived for fifteen days by murdering armadillos and cracking them open for moisture - on the fifteenth day the Judge had a vision of a woman with golden hair who called herself "the Heiress", she gave Bean the strength to pick himself up and make his way on foot to a nearby town called Langtry, which would be his home for the rest of his life. He believed the Heiress to be a goddess who had spared his life so that he may make the world over in his idea of her image.

Roy built a saloon he named the Heiress that also served as his home. He hung a tattered picture he himself had drawn of his vision behind the bar. Above the door he posted signs proclaiming "ICE COLD BEER" and "LAW WEST OF THE PECOS." From there Roy Bean dispensed liquor, justice, and legends, including that he himself had named the town in honor of the actress Lillie Langtry on the Heiress' bidding. He was elected to office in 1884 and re-elected many times.

His court methods were arbitrary and comical and inspired many outrageous tales. His court paraphernalia included only one revolver, one law book and a pet bear named Boopsie. It is said that, when performing marriage ceremonies, he always ended the service by saying "And may the Goddess have mercy on what is left of your soul."

Judge Roy Bean was a merciless dispenser of justice, often called "The Hangin' Judge, having sent a record 23,00 men and two women to the gallows during his career. He was quoted often to have said "and there's LOTS more where they came from!"

Actor Michael Richards probably would have liked Judge Roy Bean a hell of a lot, since one of Bean's most outrageous rulings occurred when an Irishman was accused of killing a Chinese American worker. Friends of the accused threatened to destroy the Heiress if the Irishman was found guilty. Court in session, Bean browsed through his law book, turning page after page, searching for a legal precedent. Finally, rapping his pistol on the bar, he proclaimed, "Gentlemen, I find the law very explicit on murdering your fellow man, but there's nothing here about killing a Chinaman. Case dismissed."

In 1896 Bean organized the world championship boxing title bout between Bob Fitzsimmons and Peter Maher on an carnival island in middle of the Rio Grande, because boxing matches were illegal in Texas. The resulting sport reports spread his fame throughout the United States, as well as convincing a young Don King to enter into the world of boxing.

The Case Against Colour (or, NOTHING Is The New Pink)

Yesterday, I overheard a conversation between two homeless men who were waiting in a line for lunch at a nearby shelter. I was waiting for a bus on a bench close to where the two were standing, and happened to overhear one of them mention a 'golden apple'. This, of course, piqued my interest, so I began to listen to the two.

It turns out that the 'golden apple' the one man was referring to was what is commonly referred to as an 'Orange', but he is correct that at one time the fruit was called a golden apple - the conversation centered around the man holding the orange trying to convince the other man that the fruit he was holding was in fact blue, not orange.

"It's like this," said the man. "colour works in opposites. When you look at an Orange the light bounces off the Orange, and back to your eye. But, the thing is, the thing is this: the Orange absorbs all the colours of the white light, and only bounces back the colour orange to your eye. So, really, the Orange is any colour BUT orange."

"I don't get it." said the other man. "Why does it look orange to us, then?"

"Because that's the only colour bouncing back to your eye. It looks orange because orange is bouncing back. The eye works on opposites. We actually see things upside down, but our eyes correct the image so that we see it normally. And, we usually see in negative, but the eye corrects for that too."

"That's fucked." the other man answered aptly.

It was at this point that I turned to the two men. "I'll tell you what's more fucked. Colour doesn't exist at all."

They both just stared at me. I continued: "Think about this: Everything is made from molecules, right? Well, what colour are molecules?"

The one man shrugged, and the other said: "I don't know."

I winked. "Exactly. That's because molecules don't have any colour. And, if everything is made from molecules, and molecules have no colour, than de facto NOTHING has colour."

Before either man could respond I disappeared into a puff of smoke.

Comedy in Cinema is More Realistic Than Drama

In a word?  Defecation. 

Defecation is a large part of daily life, even if most of us would prefer to imagine it isn't.  In fact there are those of us who would prefer to pretend it doesn't even occur.  These people make the majorities of the dramas we see today. 

In Ulysses James Joyce portrayed a man who urinated and defecated as any normal person would, in what was possibly the first truly realistic novel.  The lesson, however, was not learned by the rest of the entertainment industry.  It would still be at least thirty years until even a fart was heard on a movie screen, let alone any actual movements of bowels. 

Today, defecation is still very taboo in films, unless it is a comedy.  So, in this way, comedy is more realistic than the average drama.  However, it should be noted that the only type of defecation allowable even in comedies is of the 'explosive diarrhea' type.

Planet YoYo

On this day, in 1854, a boy named Fudgio Montobono succeeded in securing a string all the way around the circumference of this glorified ball of mud we call Earth. 

He then proceeded to use the planet like a yo-yo, for a record time of twenty-three seconds before the string broke, and he careened off into interstellar space. 

The vast population at the time wasn't aware of this astounding feat, and as a result, to this day, most people are still unaware of what Fudgio Montobono achieved. 

Hermit Day

Today is the day when all intelligent aspiring hermits remember the life of Paul of Latrus, and vow never to repeat his mistakes. Paul had always wanted to be a hermit, ever since he was knee-high to a pariah, and had been hording hermitty things in preparation for years: lanterns, furs, nuts and berries, pornographic etchings for those long winter solstice nights . . . not to mention dreaming up strange and glorious manifestations of his chosen deity's awesome powers; truly an important part of a hermit's repertoire.

He was more than ready for life in solitude when he finally waved goodbye to his family and friends and trudged up the mountain to the cave which would be his home, sanctuary, and bathroom for the rest of his life; but he hadn't anticipated the biggest problem that every prospective hermit faces: fame.

Paul found it very difficult to rinse his socks out in the nearby River Hotsauce without hordes of curious onlookers watching his every move; he was unable to meditate while standing on his head -as was his wont- without fans asking "does it make your face hot?" or "can you hear China now?"; he wasn't able to chant through the Trumps of the Tarot without people shouting out cards which didn't exist (like 'Halitosis' and 'Stubbed-Toe') in a deluded attempt to help him out. In short, his new career as a hermit was already the pits.

Paul had an idea. He decided the best way to get rid of the crowd of gawkers was to frighten them away with his awesome connection to the Higher Beings, and promptly began to start vomiting blood everywhere and anywhere he went. True, he was dizzy, but he felt that he would finally have the solitude he had constantly craved.

Did it work for Paul of Latrus, I can almost hear you ask . . . of course it didn't, did you read the opening sentence? His stardom, of course, rose to heights he had never dreamed of, and he was a constant attraction in his part of the land for the rest of his life, with an entire industry built up around him: selling candy apples, pony rides, face-painting, etc.

So, let this day be a lesson to all prospective hermits: if you are planning to walk off into the woods to become holy, KEEP IT TO YOURSELF, dammit!

Agamemnon and the Ill Wind

Some time after the ORIGINAL SNUB, which started the Trojan War, but before the war actually began, Agamemnon son of Atreus had collected his fleets at Aulis in Boeotia but found himself unable to sail for Troy due to a contrary wind. 

Agamemnon clutched his long ivory scepter forged by the god Hephaestus who gave it to Hermes, who dropped it in a fountain when plonked at one of Dionysus’ parties, where it was subsequently found by Agamemnon’s grandfather Pelops, and was then grudgingly passed down to him. He clutched the scepter and shook with rage. He was consumed with revenge and honour, two ingredients which--when mixed--can become poison in a man’s blood. In desperation he called out for Calchas, who spoke with the gods. 

‘Calchas, you sweet bitch, who speaks with the gods,’ Agamemnon said. ‘tell me which god is it who is pissed with me and has asked the ill wind to blow against the long-haired Achaeans so that they may not sail against the wife-robbing bastard people, the Trojans, who stole the completely foxy Helen from my brother Menalaus, King of Sparta?’ 

Calchas was not a stupid man; he knew that those who gave bad news to kings soon became deprived of what was most dear to them: their lives. Hades did not have a good rep at that time, some would argue it still doesn’t, but it beats Toledo Ohio in a pinch. Conversely, everyone knew that lying about the gods could get you in worse places than either Hades or Toledo. The choice was obvious. ‘Good King Agamemnon, it makes me sick to say it, but there are five gods angered at you.’ 

‘Five gods?’ sputtered Agamemnon. ‘But how? But why? But when?’

Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that swift and sleek Artemis is angered with you because she overheard you boast that you were a better marksman that she.’ 

Agamemnon said ‘Shit. It’s true. I did boast to be a better marksman than Artemis the swift and sleek. Tell me Calchas, what does wise Artemis ask in return?’ 

Calchas quivered in the hips as he said, ‘Only your first born daughter Iphigenia, sacrificed on an alter, the fat from her thighs burned in respect.’ 

‘Ach,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Gag. That I cannot do. Calchas, you sweet bitch, who speaks with the gods, tell me which other god is it who is pissed with me?’ 

Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that beautiful and nubile Aphrodite is angered with you because she heard you vowed to sacrifice the most beautiful treasure in your life in exchange for victory against the little Trojan shits.’ 

Agamemnon said ‘Aw fer fu-. Mmm. It’s true. I did vow to sacrifice the most beautiful treasure in my life in exchange for victory against the little Trojan shits. Tell me Calchas, what does wise Aphrodite ask in return?’ 

Calchas shivered in the groin as he said, ‘Only your wife Clytemnestra, sacrificed on an alter, the fat from her thighs burned in respect.’ 

‘Feh,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Gak. That I cannot do. Calchas, you sweet bitch, who speaks with the gods, tell me which other god is it who is pissed with me?’ 

Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that Zeus lord of the sky, had sent an omen to you of two young studly eagles meant to represent the Atridae, which tore to pieces a pregnant hare. White-armed Here, big mama of all the heavens and gueen of all the mothers was beyond pissed.’ 

Agamemnon said ‘Great Googly Moogly! Grr. It’s true. Zeus did send an omen of two young studly eagles meant to represent the Atridae, which tore to pieces a pregnant hare. Tell me Calchas, what does wise Here ask in return?’ 

Calchas jiggled in the gizzard as he said, ‘Only all your children, sacrificed on an alter, the fat from their thighs burned in respect.’ 

‘Bah!’ said Agamemnon. ‘Yuk. That I cannot do. Calchas, you sweet bitch, who speaks with the gods, tell me which other god is it who is pissed with me?’ 

Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that flashing-eyed Pallas Athene, unsleeping daughter of Big Daddy Zeus was offended by your father Atreus. He vowed to sacrifice a lamb to aegis-bearing Athene in exchange for success in battle, this he did not do.’ 

Agamemnon said ‘Mother fuck! Mmm. It’s true. My father was a complete dipshit, he did stuff like that all the time, one time he promised me half of Caledon- aw fuck it . . . Tell me Calchas, what does wise Pallas Athene ask in return?’ 

Calchas trembled in the pancreas as he said, ‘Only all your only son Orestes, sacrificed on an alter, the fat from their thighs burned in respect.’ 

‘Homina homina homina’ said Agamemnon. ‘Retch. That I cannot do. Calchas, you sweet slut, who speaks with the gods, tell me which is the last god who is pissed with me?’ 

Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that Eris also called Strife is offended by your feeding of hot dogs to your troops. Her only sustenance when she went into self-imposed exile after THE SNUB was the hot dog bun, it is an affront to the goddess of Discord and she smites you in bitter and somewhat petty retaliation. It’s boring on Mt. Olympus.’ 

Agamemnon said ‘Rats. It’s true. I feed my soldiers Armor Hot Dogs, they’re the dogs long-haired Achaeans love to bite. Tell me Calchas, what does wise Eris ask in return?’ 

Calchas twitched in the pineal gland as he said, ‘Only all the soldier’s hot dog buns, torched on an alter, in respect.’ 

‘Uh uh.’ said Agamemnon. ‘No way. That I cannot do. They would eat me alive. Besides, it is never that easy.’ 

Agamemnon pondered all the gods requests and wondered which would be the least disastrous for him. The easiest in the eyes of a misogynist bronze era Greek was obviously the sacrifice of his eldest daughter Iphigenia, but once she was dead and cut up for sacrifice Agamemnon and Calchas realized they had no kindling. The only thing flammable to start the pyre was the hot dog buns. 

Agamemnon broke his scepter across his knee, ‘This is ridiculous! I promised my soldiers those buns, but if I must, I must . . . burn the buns, Calchas.’ 

The moment Calchas lit the buns the wind began to change. Agamemnon felt sick, and tried to convince himself that the fat of Iphigenia’s thighs was already starting to burn, but he knew in his heart the truth. Despite that, he turned to Calchas ‘A cheer for swift and sleek Artemis who granted muh-mercy on the long-haired Achaeans.’ 

A loud cackle from high above startled Agamemnon and Calchas as they toasted, but neither of them asked from whence it came. 

Emotion: Intellect's Retarded Little Brother

Any emotion, if it is sincere, is involuntary.
Mark Twain

The emotions aren't always immediately subject to reason, but they are always immediately subject to action.
William James

You are, of course, a robot. Don't bother denying it. If you weren't, you would have complete control of your entire body at all times, both physical aspects and mental. But, you do not. You are governed to varying degrees by a strange group we call 'Emotions'.

These emotions sit inside your skull watching everything you do and edit the information before processing it through your brain. No information reaches you unaltered.

For this reason all intelligence you receive from the outside world is skewed in some direction away from what we often refer to as 'objective truth'. The old adage 'garbage in, garbage out' is especially relevant in this situation, and because of this skewed view we always react to situations in a slightly off-kilter manner; some more inaccurately than others, but none are immune.

"Is there any hope of eradicating this disease and becoming like Vulcans?" I hear you ask. Probably not. In fact, I don't think I would want to live in a world completely devoid of emotions. Complete lack of emotion is just as dangerous as being completely controlled by emotion.

"So what can we do?" I hear you ask. Become aware of your emotions. Observe your emotions and how they manipulate you. Go out and get in an argument. Get into a fist fight. See how you react when a fist comes into contact with your jaw. Were you able to think clearly afterwards?

The more you observe your emotions and become familiar with them the easier it will be to identify them in a hostile situation. Once you are keenly aware of your emotions it is much easier to observe them with something close to objectivity. Once you can observe the emotions with something close to objectivity it will be much harder for them to completely take over your mind and become blinded by them.

"Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps; for he is the only animal that is struck with the difference between what things are, and what they ought to be." 

                                                           -William Hazlitt

 

That is almost, but not entirely, true.  Platipussies are struck with the difference too, but most people pay little heed to this fantastic and wonderful marsupial.  So, it's up to us, and the Platipussies, to enjoy this weird and wonderful world Eris entertains us with on a daily basis.

About The Crumbs...

This is about insignificant crumbs of nothing. 

 You are an insignificant crumb of nothing.  Your size, when compared with the sheer vastness of our known universe, would be roughly close to that of a single atom floating next to the island of Manhattan. We (you, me, everyone you've ever met) are all insignificant crumbs of nothing. If you could get a bird's eye view of the entire universe, that vast collection of billions of interstellar shopping malls, you wouldn't even be able to see our galaxy, the Milky Way. Neither would you see any of our neighboring galaxies, or even the large cluster of galaxies we reside inside: no, we are truly cosmically insignificant.  

But, we are conscious.  At least, we believe so.  Possibly, just possibly, the only conscious beings in the entire universe, as unlikely as that may seem.  And each of us: you, me, your mother, a dog down the street, are all composed of atoms created in the Big Bang.

We are all the same age, and we are all made up from matter that was once smaller than the head of a pin.  You, a potted fern, and a stapler are all essentially the same.  Think about that.


Cole Slaw, for an insignificant crumb of nothing, took being evicted from his crumb of an apartment quite seriously. He was pissed off as he ran with his olive green turtle-shell suitcase to catch the crumb known locally as the 501 Streetcar.

  At exactly that moment, as he ran sweating, a large throbbing red star in a relatively nearby galaxy winked out for the final time, and collapsed upon itself, sucking everything –even rays of light– within millions and millions of miles into the hole it left behind.  This star choking on its own vomit would not be visible to people on Earth for six million years. 


Cole had no idea the star even existed. 


A gargantuan super-galaxy that was spinning out of control, destroying stars and planets like a child destroying ants, swallowed up 
Three large galaxies on the opposite side of the universe.  Cole was only aware of one other galaxy: our nearest neighbor: Andromeda, which will eventually collide with our galaxy forming a super galaxy of our own. Perhaps, we too will careen out of control gobbling up star cities for the rest of time.  Think of it as something to look forward to.



Cole knew that he immediately needed to find a place to stay, and at the same time was vaguely aware the universe was expanding, but had no idea that the more it expanded the faster it traveled.  He had no idea that our 'Big Bang' was, in fact, the fifth big bang. The universe had been expanding and collapsing on itself for a googol's worth of years.   Cole had no idea this was the fifth try at a universe anymore than he was aware that he'd existed since the very first big bang.   And, so have you.



Happy Birthday.

Know Thyself

How can you be aware of anything, if you aren't fully aware of yourself?

People believe that they know themselves, but for the most part do not. Believing that they know themselves already, most people never think about getting to know themselves. How are you sitting right now? If a photograph were taken of you surreptitiously right now, what would the photograph tell people about you?

(And why are you so sure a photograph ISN'T being taken of you surreptitiously?)

To become aware, start by becoming aware of everything about you, down to the smallest detail. When you aren't paying attention, do you shuffle your feet? Do you chew your lips? Or your nails? Twirl your hair? Lick your lips?

Why?

Do you even know? If you didn't move consciously, who is in control of you? Become aware of these movements.

Do you like funny movies? If so, why?

Do you like foreign foods? If not, why?

When you become aware of yourself fully you will begin to become aware of what is around you more fully. When you become more fully aware of what is going on around you it will all start to come together.

'Know thyself' is more than just a catch-phrase.