Sitting in the Ninth Way, in accordance with the appropriate signs and signals, following the custom of the Wise Folks of Ages Past (WFAP), especially the ones with cool tattoos.
I swear, if I should at any point think of anything actually intelligent to say about sex and death, I'll say it. I still feel bad about that chapter, as it was lame, but then again, I am my own worst critic (worst meaning "least qualified" as well as "harshest"), and I did recommend a good book by a French person.
...I must admit, this tripe business has gotten pretty darn confusing. Perhaps an orderly and precise discussion of the terms involved and their connexions (<--this technical term originated in a Rolling Stones song) would do us good. Perhaps there is a use for the orderly and logical methodology of analytic philosophy after all. Nah. Pain in da butt.
...The preceding, along with the aforementioned "I Love Lucy"-style punch line, is one of the classic forms of American humor. Learn it well, my children, and teach it to your pets and/or plants as your pets and/or plants once taught it to you, and their pets and/or plants taught it to you, etc.
...The comment on analytic philosophy, the predominant and painstaking tradition in England and the Colonies, is also an example of the classic "funny grapes" syndrome, as exemplified by the story of some animal trying to reach some grapes, failing, and proceeding to humorize his inadequacy using funny card tricks, fish riddles (i.e. riddles about fish), and jumpin' around saying "I'm cool; I'm cool." You may feel sorry for this author, but your pity will only engender my resentment (making it either male or female or the sex responsible for idiotic and extra-redundant descriptions of puns as idiotic (a trait they posses by definition [definition omitted for copyright reasons; reference to the recycling of the pathetic yet significant self-reflection of the text omitted for copyright reasons; reference to bunnies omitted on grounds of obscenity; reference to something very exciting and important omitted on a whim.])). (Imaginative readers may again wish to imagine something, like perhaps bunnies, bunnies swaying back and forth along this line: --------------, lulling you to sleep sleep... and also sleep. <<Snap>> Oh... nothing happened; I mean, I didn't really hypnotize you... again. Oh, I see you are considering buying four more copies of this book. Ah, good, you have fallen for my red herring and know not what you are/were really hypnotized about/concerning/of/bacos/ah, not bacos, dammit!/yes, I think SO.
...breakdown has occurred. Auxiliary author engaged.
...Ah, that is mucho bettero, agua?
Language readjustment occurring. No more potty-mouth. Tackiness leaving text (slowly) as the author, and his race that we call Man(Wo), learn about life, love, and themselves, all within 1/2 hour with commercial breaks and a laugh track.
Okay, I admit it. I am your god and elder and wise creature, okay? Are you satisfied now? My mother was a jackal and my father was Peru. I am Finnish yet barely Begun (Pretend the latter is the adjectival form of a country in order to find this to be a "joke.") (Imaginative readers may wish to run screaming naked through the Louvre, singing "I am Art" in a Tom Jonesish voice. They may wish to mean this merely as a pun on the name Arthur, too, but I really don't know why they would wish this, especially when they could be wishing for my body, which frankly wouldn't do me much good unless they tried to hire me out as a personal Soloflex(TM) and/or full-contact masseuse, depending upon their taste. Just quote me a price and I will consider... consider you one of those people who has to use money to relate to others due to a lack of good credit. End parentheses, please.).
I was thinking about advertising blurbs for the inside front cover of this book, and it occurred to me that in order to get through this text, one will pretty much have to end up thinking a lot like me -- in form, that is (though I have hinted time and again that in the case of Tripe, form is content and Vice Versa (a fine movie in the tradition of Freaky Friday. Please, Hollywood my love, make more)). Then it occurred to me that most readers are just skimming for "butt" jokes.
I have just skimmed the previous page and found only three butt "jokes," so I will make another: My Butt!! No, thank you, and you're quite welcome.
If you look back a few paragraphs, you'll see I was admitting to being the Messiah, but I warn you of the boy who cried Messiah, as exemplified in the famous parable by Opie in which a small boy who was very sleepy cried "Messiah" until a hot dog vendor [Editor's note: "Messiah" means "hot dog vendor" in Yiddish. Probably.] showed up and killed him. Because of this, I may just refrain from that awful crime of hubris, or excessive pride, for that matter, so as to be the last man alive on earth. And I don't mean the sex-neutral (wo)man, I mean man; many women shall survive Armageddon.
There again the hormones speak, as they did before in discussing the subjects of love, sex, and "Saved by the Bell." Can you hear the hormones screaming? Can you hear -- them -- screaming (something about Hervez Villachez)?
Witness the degradation of humor from the pure play of form (like in the smash Broadway hit First Sitting) to references from pop culture (CRUD). We have been tainted together you and I, and I think the ichorous ooze shall ne'er leave without trace from your skin and parched breath. You have been so sucked in; I am so thrilled that you are still reading!
This leads me to an important question. I'm quite sure that as you've been reading this, you've been wanting to keep it under your pillow so as to let its wisdom seep into your head as you sleep, but what with this volume being so voluminous and all, this might be uncomfortable and cause brain tumors. If you are concerned about this question, write to your Congressperson and tell it that dammit, there's a problem and somebody better solve it, but do not refer them to me, the author, as I'm just a voice in your head, you demented loony freak... I mean that in a nice way though.
If you are not concerned about this question, you have fallen into the Cebo de Cabra and Died. THE END.
Let it be known that this document was originally written on scrolls: old dot-matrix computer paper with the little holes in the sides. This should make the original much more viable as a religious text, and make it more comfortable under your pillow as well. So, I invite future generations to search the ruins of my tiny life for the original scroll. It shall be a race, which is so much like a game that it shall be fun for you, and I will not have to watch, for I shall be dead, which shall be so much like a game that it shall be fun for you.
Unfortunately, starting with the last paragraph before this, I ran out of scroll and had to move to boring old notebook paper bound by a yellow spiral, so there goes the cool gifty gift to you archaic religious-collector's-item-mentality people out the friggin' window... Just so you know.
For fear that my writing style may have begun to grate upon the reader (I mean more than I had intended it to), I think I shall have to quote something. Later. It will give you something to thirst for, aside from my bile.
|© 1993 Mark A. Linsenmayer||[ Contents ]|