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Thirteenth Sitting

[Insert "amusing" comments about "unlucky 13" and his unfortunate accident in the old coal mine here, should you please.]

I was in a kind of a quandary in the last sentence of the last sitting, because for artistic purposes I really wanted to use the word "fuck," but considerations of publisher-approval and Mom reading this got in the way. To overcome these primal Wussinesses of mine I will utter this net of profanity:

[Paragraph deleted for copyright reasons.]

That felt, well, dirty and cheap, but good. You know, my Crazy Monkey, the thing wrong with cursing is not the word, which is so cute and lilting on the palate, but the curse, the getting angry at pots and pans or your car or God that bastard and exclaiming. I don't care if you say "fudge" or "fiddlesticks," or what have you, it's still a dirty sin and ya gonna burn in hell. Maybe.

...Which brings up the question of "Is there a hell?" which is a simple yes, being [insert a reference to a TV show or move you really don't like (or pretend not to), "dinner with" some person whose company you find unpleasant (finding it so at dinner most especially), or a description of ultimate torture from your favorite religion. The last of these options is sure to be the most funny.].

But enough evidence; we are on a mission of inquiry, are we not? Exploring the limits of human understanding? Probing the natures of the concepts we use in everyday discourse? Pandering? (<-not a typo) Here we are as Tripe with a purpose, our purpose being to write/read for many pages, and our strategy (for the moment) to actually follow through on a particular topic, namely T-R-I-etc.

Unfortunately I don't remember what I was talking about, as I have taken another alienating and time-dilating break.

...And another, this one lasting several parsecs or weeks, if these still count as proper units of time what with the metric system and all. I know that the previous section was leading up to some big cool synthesis of philosophic wit and expert sophistry, but the hell with it, I say. Ye reader shall have to hang in suspense, letting its own mind wander over the problem until I get around to getting around to it.

I come back to you a changed figment of your imagination, which means your imagination is changed. This is not because I am wearing a tie (though I am, due to an unfortunate dressing accident), but because I have met the demon of death and laughed. So he hit me. This means I fell in love, or would have were I to have a) existed, b) met someone to fall in love with, and c) fell in love, but I did not (exist, that is).

Ah, dread! To heck with the folding of words upon words in which personality disappears and later winds up on some celebrity game show. (I am using the words "game," "show," and "celebrity" very loosely here). I must confront you as me, so that we may pass into and beyond each other and you will buy me lunch. So I will relate to you some recent bits of my past so that you may reel in terror... and also so that you may have background upon which my musings will be based.

This is new, you must realize, as in the past (throughout the whole of most of history, in fact) the musings have been our musings, but I believe this will not create a deathly sense of alienation greater than that which is already there but rather heighten the intimacy that we have achieved.

But first, before treating you to this treat (which come to think of it chances are you didn't pay for, as I've been giving out a lot of free copies of this book), I will recant on what I just said one mouthful ago and fulfill my promise of old: I will try to finish the damn argument, or "exploration" rather, that was building up in the last chapter. How is Tripe the inevitable destiny of you? Here are two possible answers, the first of which is more nearly incorrect than the second.

1. This is not a Choose Your Own Adventure(TM) (or not much of one), and you have read a lot of this (or you just opened randomly to this page and started reading; in this case I advise shuffling the deck and trying again, as this is a lame rehash section), and you know as well as I do that when you hang around someone long enough you start to pick up their mannerisms, which is why I would advise against jobs in the penal system or business, so...

This obviously doesn't cover the crabbie, as you may be an angry critic or my X-girlfriend and I was trying to be more pretentious in my claim, You being the archetype for Humanity, dressed as you are and all, so...

2. It's a whole lot like what Jolly Socks Mill said about competent judges. This is a standard philosophy reference, so let me misreport it for your use at celebrity lunches and intimate peat-groomings. Mr. Mill (the powerful English someteenth century philosopher who preached liberty and Your responsibility to off the Queen if she gets sassy as long as it brings the most happiness to the most happy people) was talking about various sorts of pleasures, like those gained by rolling one's engorged bits in mud vs. reading Mr. Mill's books. The idea was that sure, the beasts of the field look all happy and all, but were they to properly get into some intellectualizing, they would surely prefer that (even though it would make them neurotic). So the competent judges are the ones who've been everywhere and felt everything; what they pick as coolest is coolest. Now it doesn't matter if you think this is baloney for any of the 63 reasons you could reasonably employ in thinking this is baloney, because I'm just drawing an analogy. Once you get Tripe, I allege, you can't turn back (partially because you would have no idea where to turn back to, what with the "useful" table of contents and all), and if you don't feel this at this point, then you don't get it. This means that Tripe is not actually inevitable, as all the analogously-competent judges could die and then teaching could die, to be discovered again only at the birth of the next Buddha. Nonetheless, in certain ways it has Ma Nature on its side (in what looks like a tattoo but was actually a completely unintentional flesh wound), that part of Her that spits upon Herself, considers auto-cannibalism as a substitute for grooming, and instead directs the author (via the Red Phone) to take far too long to get to an anticlimactic end of a pretty unsatisfactory and ultimately self-indulgent argument, lend continuity to a whole section though it might, notwithstanding the three-week vacation to a land of jobs and unrequited love.

[3. Here is a third answer added months later during an "editing" session, so it might actually be true, though irrelevant... This book will soon get better... or worse... or... well... (George)... different. Just so you know.]

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