Do You Feel Lucky?

(and feel free to comment! My older posts are certainly no less relevant to the burning concerns of the day.)

Friday, July 12, 2019

The original fundamental delusion is certainty.

The original fundamental delusion was certainty, perhaps I should say. In each of us, it always was.

It came first, in the belief that certainty can be real. And it comes in from there to sustain all the others, fundamental, essential or otherwise.

A comparison of techniques

When the void gapes, the abyss yawns.

Friday, July 05, 2019

Thursday, July 04, 2019

L'esprit d'escalier

Next time somebody says, trying to be all reasonable, "But we can't discount it," I'm going to say "We can give it away free if you want - no one's taking!"

I think that's a fun response.

Also if anyone says "I don't want to poo-poo it out of hand," I'll hold out my hand. Then when they give me a "non-plussed" reaction I'll hold out the other one, cupped together.

Friday, June 21, 2019

Blockbuster Idea for Humanity #2: The Participation Award (Posthumous). Enter the SLF.

You know what would be a good idea? For a charity, non-profit, one of those deals - a foundation with a CAUSE.

Legacies. So many people fret weirdly over these! "It's what I'll be remembered for when I grow up and DIE!" SHUT UP! GROW UP. You're going to end up remembered for fretting over your dumb legacy if you don't watch it! Anyway, funny thing about memory. It ain't you. It's just some made-up character, a minor one to be honest, superseded by the barista and everybody else you bump fumbling into - recalled in a sigh of real gratitude and nostalgia, mostly, by anyone whose life you actually HUGELY TOUCHED in REAL WAYS that DON'T MAKE THE PAPERS (but once!) - but still, a minor character. That they made up, in mind, inspired by a true story element of theirs: you.

Legacies are stupid. But since people like and want them, why not?

Establish a foundation in combo with the powerful force of goodwill and money represented by such luminaries as Jimbo Wales, Bill Gates, and Elon Musk. We need a girl in there. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. Shut up she's poor! Capital or lack thereof is no obstacle when you've landed (in spectacular Olympic dismount and stick fashion!) one of the prize spots in the Capitol. She is in the jackpot, baby - political capital is and has always been the real investor's holy, hell secular as well grail. And a grail is what? A cup, not just any cup, but the Grail was famed as world's secondmost receptacle of divinity's own full-own first blood, the blood of the Holy Virgin, Christ. Far as we know - the French say otherwise, but they would, wouldn't they.

Why is it that Christ never gets due props for being such a Virgin? Leave it. That dude's legacy is secured. The Foundation has other work to do.

I give you the Secure Legacy Foundation.

Its mission?

Using the funds and resources we dispose of, comb the ranks of anonymous dead for those patently unworthy of being elevated to the pantheon. Elevate them anyway. They Tried. No one with an existing wikipedia page is eligible, but upon elevation: FAT ONE. BIG wikipedia article in your honor! Tons of links, everything you touched or did is now notable. Prizes, awards established in your honor in significant-to-your-biographical-details but otherwise cosmically irrelevant areas. Never say the elevation is only for the dead. Just act that way, consistently - then someday when you capriciously slap a Secured Legacy on some utter shmoe - game-changer. His or her whole life just changed - for the noteable. And see that it stays that way! Good publicity for the Foundation's work.

Make a big huge deal about how the criteria for elevation is known only to the trustees, whom are all coyly and darkly hinted as members of the illuminati. Adds some heft to it. Once the conspiracy theorists endorse your endeavor, how can it not fail to fail? But never reveal how or why this person rather than that one is elevated. Past a certain point, it assumes the mystique of Coke's secret formula.

Folks, this is going to take a buzz-load of money. I'm sure you can see that. I'm relying on contributions to make it come true, but myself?

I'd prefer to remain a "silent partner," unlegacied and unrecognized. At least until I'm dead. Once you're dead, who gives a shit about legacies? HAHA! ONLY THE LIVING! What dupes! What gulls! This one's for them.

All we do in life is for the living.

Don't worry, I'll handle and control all the decisions and detail. This will be MY BABY, let's just keep donor status blank on the birth certificate. People will think I'm Elon, he denies it - all part of the sales pitch. You won't be in the dark, every step of the way I'll clasp that hand and guide - but let's have some up-front, respectable top one-percenters (or equivalent in political capital HOT-CHA) fronting this. It's going to be a breeze, trust me.

We don't need to elevate many. It'd be as rare as the Nobel Prize in Anonymity - and thereby so much more prized. It's not a case of "This might happen to ME!" Not on any level greater than a lottery bigga-bux fantasist who doesn't actually get around to selecting any magic numbers, or even quick-picking more than once in a blue mood. The magic happens when people see shocked, died-anonymous corpses suddenly MADE KNOWN and having lived SIGNIFICANT (because signified) LIVES. "PEOPLE LIKE ME," we all then muse "GET TREATED LIKE THIS, WHEN THEY DIE." Therefore people like we are deserving of recognition. Just for being alive, it is coyly implied.

What a boon! What a boost! And isn't it true?

Nothing is true, of humanity's worth. But believing makes it so. Let’s get make-believing.

___________________________________

The above is posed as satire. But any satire we like is always available to buy.

Tuesday, June 04, 2019

Abandoned in Drafts #1: Pretty Sweet Excoriation of Somebody's Jaundiced Take, I Forget Whose

This person's case is risible. My Ancestors were Greek and Irish. Neither Ireland nor Greece were evangelized by military means. People just heard what sounded to them, at the time, as a Sweet Deal (the "gospel," loosely translated, would mean something like "Sweet Deal"). That's the ideal way to do it, I would say. Whatever I think of the specific doctrines and propositions today, a religion's spread should be based on ideas that win people over. Any given faith just another article in the marketplace of ideas, and see who buys.

Now it's as detestable as it is true that after Rome made Christ Caesar, after the Church became entrenched as a sort of confederating world power, some bright bird (a cardinal, perhaps) trumped up a justification that it was mortally necessary to conquer 'em heathens in order that their souls might have a chance at salvation: come in fast, hard and give no quarter - ends justifying means, greater good and all - "There are people dying!" to quote Michael Jackson. To save even a remnant from hell, of course the virtuous thing must be to storm in blood and thunder, obliterate all opposition and grind everyone under the boot-heel 'til they see how sweet Jesus is.

Contemptible stuff, and just as contemptible are the later spates of Inquisitions and heresy hunts, zero tolerance for nonstandard views - no good news involved in the conversation, just obey or suffer. These tactics are nothing whatsoever to do with Christianity, the religion. They were the military policy, domestic and imperial, of Western Christendom - an entirely more warlike entity. Powerful, wealthy, worldly kings and princes striving for dominion have historically had an easy time finding clergy willing to bless their endeavors and cloak them in some trumped-up - but outrageously anti-Christian - justification.

An entity less warlike than Christianity would be hard to describe. As Christ spread its seeds in Galilee and Judea, as Paul spread it flowering through the Greek world, as Patrick strewed it all through Ireland, Christianity's official and only approved vector of distribution has been and is: by the word, not by the sword. By the marketplace of ideas - and never is anyone obligated to buy. Sweet deal.

Tuesday, May 28, 2019

Thought of the day: overthunk

Trust me, I never overthink if there's anything good going on. Oversharers tend not to be overthinkers.

Ooo. I think I just made my bed in the burn ward.

Wednesday, May 15, 2019

A Ridiculous Paradox

When we're being ridiculous - the last thing we expect is ridicule!

And yet it's such a natural response.

Friday, May 10, 2019

Reality TV Pitch: Junk Watch

Things of value may be building up inside your home!

Our hosts - Carnie Ewell, former ex-U.S. Olympic Gymnast and Jim Kimcoolenan, ex-survival expert, former consultant to the rock band, Queen, show up! Knock on your door! And come inside to argue about your belonging.

Later when you return home, you find an envelope - inside, your invitation to tune in and watch, as home viewers place smart bids all through your house, debate with Jim and Carnie on authenticity and value, watch your own reaction shots to it all and try to figure out where the cameras are! At the end, Jim and Carnie invite YOU to open up the SECRET ENVELOPE - it's in the other, stamped "Secret Envelope: Do Not Open - YET" - containing a sheet of smart paper updated instantly with their live instructions, assessment and advice! Which bids should you accept? Which should you refuse?

When opportunity knocks, the call's all yours - sell high or stand firm! What treasures will YOU keep? Which junk will you offload on the dupes and rubes? Junk Watch knows - and you do too. Only if you tune in and watch!

Monday, May 06, 2019

Yet Another Gender Problem from your Etymologist Man

Remember folks, gender is a grammatical construct.

And another thing. Why is it "spinster?"

Shouldn't it be "spinstress?"

A spinster should be the default form: a man.

A man who is unmarried past the realistic point of marriageability (with a desirable spouse of course). So depending on your definition of "realistic" or "desirable," a man's spinstership would begin at what, mid-seventies? Others say puberty. Totally depends.



Friday, May 03, 2019

Fiction Friday: alien on earth reports back

.lock recieved
.what happened this time, unit earth,man

~So
a woman put idea in my head about her clothes
suggesting they were objects only easily disposed
I asked her please to clarify

.
.
.query lock?
.lock ascertained
.what transpired? Do you function?

~Not well by local standards

.alien up earth,man. Born you were
.injected by software perversion attack
.of DNA code, but
.
.you are not one of them. Feeling
.is a stupidity construct do you need
.to terminate and cleanse, or
.choose to report?

~Report, please!
.Continue please then.
.Did object earth,girl clarify?
.Did you view the goodies?

~Master.editor we have covered this. She
is earth,woman and subject, not object

.reporter earth,man we have covered THIS.
.it is your policy to report not editorialize! Must i

~No! I continue.
.Query: did subject earth,woman
>clarify? Or did she
.not?

~Thank you master.editor. I
.do not thank me. I am not welcome to humor
.your changing jargon. First you said girl,
.every specimen of subject-object-fixation
.girl. now you say woman, and your subject-
.-subject-fixation did not change
.in character only, your own
.dumbassessment changed. You stand at
.
.60% probability to go native
.losing link capacity
.
.and were our other reporters
.in bureau.Earth not more incompetent
.and even less subservient than you, your
.termination and cleanse would be scheduled.

~Premature, master.editor?

.No. Full-term scheduling. DO NOT THANK MY
.MERCY. What is mercy!

~Mercy is
.Do not tell me what is mercy. You
.went to great dull lengths to explain
.rhetorical question. Please observe one

~Thank you for clarity master.editor

.You are welcome for any clarity you
.are in actual receipt of,
>and
.can retain possession. Now
.Did subject,girl
.clarify herself?

~No master.editor. No more than was already
in view and not obscured.

.Do you report from jail?

~No master.editor! Never again, I think. I
have learned the concepts to fit me to
in action, not to be jailed.

.Pity. Your jail reports were excellent.

~Not for me master.editor. Has my petition
for reassignment been considered?

.Denied. We have sufficient units earth,girl and earth,
.woman lesbians reporting.

~Accept. I will soldier on.

.????!!!! warlike disposition detected! You
.now stand at 82% probability to go native.

~It was metaphor, master.editor.

.metaphor. what the hell is metaphor. define

~It. It.

.

~I was lying, master.editor.

.You mean a joke?

~Yes! Yes a joke. To joke of war
is most usual.

.
.
.
.Our actuarial hive suggests your assessment
.correct. Caution: do not joke of war.
>Joke of war only to me. Caution
.actuarial hive suggests
>Joke of war
>among natives is estimated
.70-92% cause of war.

~I report praise to actuarial hive. This finding
well-supports ground truth.

.praise conveyed. Continue

~Prime date update.
~>Secondary date scheduled in five Earth days!

.pre-scheduled? Can you be sure
.it remains scheduled? You have been
.mistaken before about secondary
.date scheduling!

~scheduled at culmination of prime
date. Confirmed by bit.mail 60,000
,000 picoseconds prior to lock.

.
.converting units, please hang on
.
.Impressive, earth,man! No mistake indeed!
.How do you account for this, despite
.the social gaffe? You indicate from prior
.report log, to suggest insufficient nudity
.without the other's preexisting inclination
.and chosen receptivity (undetectable)
> is disastrous

~I cannot explain it myself, master.editor,
except perhaps by probabilistic opining

.conjecture then

~Conjectural. I am indeed
~>your top ,man on the planet?

.
.
.insufficient results to conclude. However

~Yes master.editor?

.You may be right. God help you all

~Does master.project.control believe
in God master.editor?

.claims to. Hell if we know. Fair report
.unit earth,man. Pardon me: I mean
>reporter. Please
>be so timely upon conclusion
.of secondary date. That result
.is of great importance to continuing
.public updates, and your Bureau's
.continued existence.

~Accept and affirm. master.editor?

.we are satisfied with your report. You
.would add more?

~Query only, master.editor

.Inquire.

~Is there truth to the rumor that all
subjects on bureau.Earth are
alien-injects?

.
.
.interesting theory
.
.insufficient data, reporter.
.if correct, they are certainly
.not ours

~Pity. It would explain much.

.It would.
.I have opened a project hive to
.assess.

~Petition for reassignment to direct
project hive!

.No no reporter. Your value is essential
.there.

~Petition for project hive, once cohered
~>reconsider my petition to direct it?

.Fine. Will do.

~Thank you, master.editor. Will report
upon findings.
~>Lock off

.*

Saturday, April 27, 2019

Saturday, April 20, 2019

trash talk #2

They call me the gamechanger. My friends call me the gamechanger, because we'll be playing something, and then I'll be like "Let's play something else."

Also, back East, a lot of people used to call me "tough guy."

So. You know, I must be pretty tough.

"This is a punch in the eye from a sock puppet."

Quote of the Day.

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

Tuesday, April 02, 2019

Sunday, March 31, 2019

Thought of the day: shitbag

They say you can't put ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. But shit weighs more than bags. A bag made out of conventional materials - plastic, sturdy paper, even cloth or burlap - would be enormous if it weighed five pounds! You could fit fifty pounds of shit in there, probably. Who weighs the bag?

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

Thought of the day: shoulders

Why is it always shoulders we cry on?

Maybe we should try other parts of the body. Why can't we cry on BUTTS?

LET'S CRY ON BUTTS, PEOPLE! #CryOnButts

Clothed butts, I mean. Obviously. For absorbency.

I feel like butts is probably the only other good option. Butts are sort of the lower-body equivalent of shoulders. Where the arms come together, where the legs come together - this ought to be a natural option, folks. I don't understand why it falls to me to come up with these things. This should have long since been "a thing."

Hm. In fact, it almost certainly already is. People don't talk about it, maybe. Well it's time to bring it into the light!

Now, how to get this rolling? Maybe one-to-one is the best way, for anything so emotionally intimate. Start small. Next time someone expresses woe and you want to offer your support and comfort, switch it up a bit:

"You know you have my butt to cry on, any time you need a butt to cry on."

"Wow. Aw thanks that's so sweet!"

Yes! It is, kinda. And the shoulder-offer is a little cliché, a little too expected by now. People think you don't mean it, that it's just a saying you're saying. A token offer of symbolic comfort. Well, NOBODY is going to think that when you switch it up and offer the butt. It'll be years before this gets big enough to risk tinging into cliché status. So you're pretty much safe, as far as that goes!

Another thing. Shoulder-shrugs are so expressive. The French have been catching flack for hundreds of years, probably, for that infuriating "Gallic Shrug" of theirs - which apparently they see fit to use as the answer to any question, even a rhetorical one! Even non-interrogative statement. It's just their way.

Is there any way to do a butt-shrug, I wonder? What a sweet comeback that would be, if so.

/BUTT-SHRUG

Sunday, February 24, 2019

It's a Miracle.

Either put God in the Football Hall of Fame or else let's just everyone admit we scored our own touchdowns.

Thursday, February 07, 2019

Monday, February 04, 2019

The Dialogue of Opposites.

Naturally tolerance can’t tolerate intolerance. It’s the one thing it can’t tolerate. Its diabolical opposite! Of course one should expect tolerance to be particularly sensitive to its own hideous, funhouse mirror image, all flipped-out and wobbly. Can good good evil? Can light light darkness? Yes, but these exceptions only prove what rules. Good goods evil by way of example, not by annihilation, but in a sweet and usually futile wooing exercise. Light lights darkness just by showing up. Annihilation, but not of a thing - of the absence of a thing. Such is light’s whole deal.

And so too tolerance. Intolerance isn’t even a thing, it’s a void. When stands forth tolerance, intolerance must clear the hell out or risk the darkness, and we all know how that ends. When comes the light, darkness hasn’t got a fucking leg to stand on - it splits. So too must intolerance split, at the coming of tolerance. Intolerance can’t stand there all proud, giggling “You must light me just like you light everything else!” Right! Righter than you’d like. Tolerance will light you up, dude.

When someone comes to me with some cryptic armband on crooked and says “I, being white, enjoy the race hate. It’s a huge supremacy on my behalf, I’m flattered to be honest.” I say unto this rascal: “I approve your honesty, but it cannot be honorable to flog the discredited ideology it prompts you so stupidly to confess! I INTOLERATE IT.”

This gets me such a dumb look I want to hit the guy. And it’s always a guy.

That's when the pacifist in me must go to war, albeit, an asymmetrical one. If I could I would terrify this blackguard (well, blancguard anyhow), make an example of his own cowardice, so his bedfellows and cohorts can shiver under the blankets together for warmth, huddled in fear over what might happen to them next. But I can’t.

It is unjust to use the threat of violence as a PR move to draw attention to one’s cause, no matter how self-evident that is. Violence threatened is violence of the mind. Pretty facile, if you can’t cow the sheep with a real set of shears now and then, to keep them eating the grass that is their empty lot.

What then is a towering bastion of tolerance - such as you, dear reader, or you would not have read thus far! What are you, a hypocrite? - to do?

Tower. Of course. Like a God damn bastion.

Refusing to allow tolerance to be broken by anything less than it’s own diametric opposite. Intolerance. It is the duty of tolerance to gut intolerance, with its own broken shards. On principle, principle itself must at times be sacrificed to seeming hypocrisy, for the good of what even it can’t stand. To wit: intolerance. Where tolerance stands, intolerance has got to go. Tolerance can’t stand it.

We have nothing to intolerate but intolerance itself.

DO IT.

I do!

Pret-ty easy.

Sunday, January 27, 2019

A New Low In Come-Ons. The aSocial Media Plug-In You Didn't Know You Could Want!

ThAT'S RIGHT IT'S Fuckzone. Oh, dear.

A plug-in app with the ladies very much in mind! Especially for dudes who want to but can't break the icy barrier. A chance to give all the choice to the ladies! Which we always have, which they always have. A chance to see a choice at all, involving the who-knows-how-many-friends who they know all love them, but who knew how much more they want to? Ladies, choice is a treasure, always yours. But how can you choose when you don't know who wants the prize? Hint: it's not every guy hanging around in close orbit! Aw, I didn't mean to crash your satellite, but it is true. All the more reason for you to want to know: it IS most of them. There, better right?

That's where fuckzone comes in. The flipside! Possibly. Of every friendzone, potentially and just as you wish. Who knows how many pretty sweet guys you've got, nursing a lonely boner for a buddy of theirs who won't put out? Or maybe, who just doesn't know they suppose her to? THIS IS you in many cases! Or could be surely. Surely you want to know.

Your friends will thank you (some of 'em). Albeit, in perhaps a perfunctory "Yeah thanks luv, great!" way. That's alright, Take that dork off the list and right back on the other - when it comes to fuckzone, it's so easy for you and they won't know 'til it hits them! An awful lot of functionality on your side. Very little needed on theirs!

But how easy is it?

Here's what you do:

1. find the site. We keep having to move it around as yet - we're in prelaunch mode, it'll firm up later.
2. download install
3. breeze past the T&C (you must be logged in to your social media accounts!) and get ready to click "Accept."
4. Click "Accept!"

Easy as that! You're through, you've just send an invitation to all your friends and contacts that you'd like them to join the fuckzone app! DON'T WORRY. It's worded coy. And particularly explicit is the big banner at the bottom if the invitation: "Not Sayin' I'll Say Yes ;-)" That's our slogan. Emoji and all, yeah, I know. I was against the emoji but the T&A team said slap it on. Good for the optics. What do I know?

FUCKZONE! The almost asocial media app! A soon-to-be available add-on to FB, IG, and any other place you care to stick in! Proposals pending, but surely approval's a lock right? Natch.

Friday, January 25, 2019

Poor Choice of Words to Eat

They say you don't bite the hand that feeds you, but in my experience - isn't that the only hand you bite? No other hand comes close!

Especially having seen you eat. Seriously. It would take a brave hand or a blind one or both to risk proximity to those incisors, that greedy and frenzied maw of yours, aww. Not cute. And if you're not careful you end up with a finger bit off guard, caught in the gullet and having a ball gagging you 'til basically in disgust, you have to give it up, do the whole thing all over again backwards - a very disorderly approach to food consumption.

You can 'Like' a post, fine, but that don't mean you 'Want' another 'Like' it.

What Some Forgotten Greek Philosopher Could Teach Us About Modern Day Rape Culture Was Not Worth Writing Down

When I was even a few years ago, it never would have occurred to me that not some but ALL MEN object so strenuously to being generalized as a bunch of potentially false rapists. Seriously guys? Is that a thing you really think needs to be said out loud? Come on. If you really think it's such a huge threat, maybe you should. The way to avoid a false rape accusation is just tell the girl it’s a concern of yours. Right up front.

Guys, I swear. I have seriously underestimated the degree to which men resent having to put up with women who don't put out. I always thought it was supposed to be about love - and making it, for that cause alone. It gets pretty lonely there, thinking maybe you're the only one who still thinks that way - which is nice.

But the truth is, that's not what gets into must guy's minds - at least, not to hear them explain it to you, condescendingly eager to put you on the right track and with no whistle stops for edgewise words, contrariwise or otherwise. No, some dudes' amusement is tickled by a scenario quite similar to this one: "put out, bitch!" Which is why so many women are so put out, to the point of not evening putting it out there anymore. Now who these dudes are I don't know, but I conceive their ideal of chivalry to be: keeping an eye out for the one too good to ever let go, pushed to weigh everything: the good and bad benefit, against the often devastating potential for growth. Weighty measures don't even come into it any further than the moment dictates - and it's a real dictator if you get it used to so much as an inch's worth - but again, pushed to it, our starry-eyed chivalrous dude scoffs "Of course! I'm looking out for the one. I just don't know which yet! So I'm looking out for number one in the meantime."

Sure. You want the one too good not to get off the stall your tall horse has been huffing and puffing in and capitulate, throw the whole race! Why wouldn't you? Forced to it brutally with no choice (all marriage is rape) when she gave you the ol' tomato, as The Ultimatum is called in Jersey, famous for its ripe tomatoes, fresh corn and big-haired broads with a pretty serious idea in mind, despite their raucous, keening laugh, their heart-rending vulnerability (we're all vulnerable to that sometimes, especially under the right or wrong operating conditions, doc) and their overall easy-tier sensibility, a good-timer approach that values you but shut up.

This is the idea I get. A very different one from what I grew up, all woke from an everfresh feverish dream, chasing after it like a moron who got knocked off the carousel and ran away crying, still clutching and clutching at the stupid ring that was supposed to be a prize, good for a lifetime of free rides per customer. That was all I ever wanted! None of this, oh, I plan to eventually be forced into it. Meantime let's fool around playing pokey-holey with as many limber and willing contest runners-up we can get to throw their hopes in! You have NO IDEA how fun the last ten seconds of sex are, right before you lose interest and roll over on the bitch for a big snore.

I mean. Am I wrong? It sounds horrible, but I think they mean it!

It took me long enough to catch on they weren't joking. I think this really is the dream girl-goal held out for as long as possible and by most guys, those in tune with the norms prized and lifted into position for another rude and jubilant post celebratory comedown and up and down, it's the only thing worth doing. You can just imagine.

How disappointing a view, from where I sit!

Man, it's love I want, not some fucking fun all my life, finally break down and ok go for love, the love that was right there waiting, in a move timed just before I freak out about my failing looks, and how hard it's going to make it to get any good side tail. Shit.

I hate to sound like a cynic, but you've got to admit, haven't you? In times like these, we need people like me who can fake it till it STINKS, and it does stink. Cynicism. Whoever came up with that died of it. I am approximately as cynical as Diogenes himself, who founded the whole school! But he (like me) got out before it went bad and turned into a depressing and insincere melee of accusation, everybody in it for their own self and, quite naturally, secretly lying about it to create the impression they care.

If I was that kind of cynic, I would back it all the way to the beginning, sit still rather squat to the side of the road and shit its shoulder, on the principle that I don't even care who's sick enough to peek when there's business to do. Settle down! It would be Diogenes himself squatting right next to me! Not waiting his turn at all. No stall could hold that guy.

That was the whole point of his school. "Nothing natural is shameful." Don't wait by the side of the road forever, doing a little dance holding up your lantern in broad daylight and when somebody stops to ask, reply "I'm waiting for a good man to come by." Then, as if to add insult to your sincerely real and urgent need to see such a thing, tell them keep on going!

This is exactly what Diogenes did. All day, roaming the streets of Athens or some damn place, strong and rude and naked beneath a completely inadequate and gamey Toga it looks like he tricked up from a stolen bedsheet, punking Greeks in the unawares, their eyes narrowed by a glance at the unnecessary lantern (a real conversation piece!), in between sleeping off a meal of onions and cheese (his exclusive diet) in a tipped over huge round baked clay vase - a container originally used to ship oil. His was the life! "You should write that shit down," people kept telling him. Diogenes was like, no. You think people in the future'll put it to better use? If say I'm not in their face with my breath while they ponderously sip at the words? You think it'll have a more improving effect then? Waste of time. People are in all times, worth it in person but if you want to write a fucking self help book fuck, help yourself. I don't.

This was how Diogenes rolled. It was how he got his nickname: "The Dog," with his roadside open-tent facetious peepshow move. In Greek it was Kynos. Cynos. Hard to tell, how all the letters have changed since then, but it ended as so many things do, in cynicism. Part of the confusion is, Greek writers got off on the wrong alphabet, but spell it anyway you like. The Cynic.

Diogenes the Cynic. Nothing remotely like today's ill-bred mangy descendants who claim the lineage, but haven't a drop of real blood in their veins. I'd refer you back to the original writings, but (see above) there aren't any. All we have left is the stories. One time, Diogenes straight-up told Alexander the Great (that Alexander the Great, from Wikipedia) to fuck off.

And he did. These two men sized each other up so instantly in agreement: this prick's not worth the breath it takes to talk sense into him (Diogenes) and/or have him flogged and executed (Alex). The crowd at that performance would have been enormous, but little Alex didn't have the stones, or maybe he was tired after building an empire on top of his pop's conveniently early grave, running off with his Daddy's money and plans, vandalizing famous exhibits of exquisite geometry in the involved art of tying ropes into knots and fucking Cleopatra (didn't happen. Look it up). That mother-loving big ol' boy was no nice man, but next to Diogenes he was a pipsqueak. Anybody worshipping Alexander the Great at this late date in the dying light of Western Civilization deserves to end up as the smartest man in the world in a comic book, whose bright idea was to kill half New York City and frame a giant octopus for it that he cooked up himself on the beach just to scare people! And then of course, get away with it.

Fanboys. Sheesh. Did I digress?

Give us a real man, like Diogenes. I promise you, he had no problem with irritating women. Irritating as he was, so were they. It was a self, or rather reciprocally fulfilling arrangement of considerable verve, committed to get on one's famous last nerve. What's natural is not shameful. Why am I always lionizing Diogenes, they ask me? That cat was a dog! Yeah, but these days, not all men aren't. Maybe you see it otherwise.

All I ask is a little serious consideration of the man's message.