We have to create culture, don’t watch TV, don’t read magazines, don’t even listen to NPR. Create your own roadshow. The nexus of space and time where you are now is the most immediate sector of your universe, and if you’re worrying about Michael Jackson or Bill Clinton or somebody else, then you are disempowered, you’re giving it all away to icons, icons which are maintained by an electronic media so that you want to dress like X or have lips like Y. This is shit-brained, this kind of thinking. That is all cultural diversion, and what is real is you and your friends and your associations, your highs, your orgasms, your hopes, your plans, your fears. And we are told ‘no’, we’re unimportant, we’re peripheral. ‘Get a degree, get a job, get a this, get a that.’ And then you’re a player, you don’t want to even play in that game. You want to reclaim your mind and get it out of the hands of the cultural engineers who want to turn you into a half-baked moron consuming all this trash that’s being manufactured out of the bones of a dying world.
My week so far has stunk big-time. So I formed a plan.
Many things lie outside my control, I know, but my skull is my own. I am going to drill a hole in my skull into which I will pour something refreshing. And I will be a new and improved me no matter what Fate, that saucy trickster, has up her sleeve.
Citrus-infused fizzy water is a possibility. Do you recommend anything else I might pour into the hole I drill in my skull?
I’ve been eating a lot of sushi lately, I offer by way of introduction to this post.
I have been thinking about something for the past day or so, albeit intermittently, I will admit. Here is the scenario. Please place, to the best of your ability, in order of worseness, from least worse to most worse, the following ways of being killed by an animal . . .
The cow and dog were best friends. They had been close companions for longer than any of the other animals could remember. Even the draft horse was unable to recall a time before this great friendship.
“I am pleased to see such harmony,” the draft horse said, “but it is unusual just the same. No good can come of it.”
The donkey said nothing and continued feeding. He cared only for fodder and pulling his little cart. The barn cat did not speak—she believed herself to be invisible and did not want to reveal her position. The chickens scratched and hopped around the dusty courtyard in front of the stock barn. They didn’t say anything because they are so incredibly small-minded and stupid.