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Is there a difference between a reason and an excuse?

I was watching a program on television a few nights ago (I'll spare you which one it was) and a woman was asking a man about some things he did which she thought were out of line.  He rambled on for a minute or so, documented the causes of said behaviour.  At the end of his speech she asked him:  "Do you think you make excuses for your behaviour a lot?"

Now, here's the crux... to me, it seemed he was explaining the reasons for his actions, yet she heard them as excuses.

What do you think is the difference between the two concepts?  IS there a difference?

Dear Roger,

It sure as shit ain't getting better.  I had an incident tonight.  I was sitting on the miserable rattle coaster excuse for this city's Public Transit, and without the shielding of a book or some form of music device I was forced to look the monkey in the eye, face to face with the Brothers and Sisters that were forced on me because of the spot on the face of Planet Mudball I was unfortunate enough to have been born onto.  It was as if the work of Hieronymus Bosch sprang into life around me, but wearing blinking sneakers and sparkling vampire t-shirts.  I'm just a man, Roger, I have my limits, dammit.  Picture the Incredible Hulk doing the tango; picture Godzilla going for sushi; picture, hell picture Frankenstein dusting.  It was not pretty.  There's something about the smell of fresh brain that reminds me of my first bedroom.  It was purple.  What sane parent paints a kid's bedroom purple?  I didn't stand a fucking chance, Roger.

Some questions:
Is it possible that the typhoon in the Philippines is the direct result of the whale-tail of Miley Cyrus?  Does the ghost of Anna Nicole Smith fart?  What did Pope Ratzinger say to Megan Fox and David Hasselhof when they all met in the Los Angeles headquarters of the Kabbalah Center™?  I don't know either, but I suspect we will all find out, sooner rather than later.  

Roger, why is it that anyone can pop out a kid, yet to receive a free coke at McDonalds I have to fill out a quiz?  How can I be expected to hear the word 'crantini' and not snap and strangle someone?  Can you answer me that?  The green olives of the world weep, my friend.

My great grandfather watched for German planes on a rooftop during WWII.  When someone called out that the war was over, he  fell from the building, impaling himself on a spiked fence far below.  A co-worker asked him, "William, does it hurt?" My grandfather replied: "Only when I laugh."   Me too, Roger; only when I laugh.

Hoopla

PS:  I need you to wire me some bail money.

"Does this bullet in my neck make me look fat?"

-Archduke Ferdinand

At lunch today a co-worker and I were talking and somehow the subject of homosexuality came up, and I made the grave mistake of saying what I really thought about the subject.

I commented, rather off-handedly and probably altogether too casually, that I believed that homosexual behaviour was, scientifically speaking, a genetic mistake.

The co-worker went quickly ballistic.  Red faced, stuttering, apparently barely able to contain the urge to strike me.

Noticing this display I quickly added that I personally saw nothing wrong with homosexual behaviour, and that people should be able to fuck whoever they want (within obvious reason), but the co-worker was having none of it.

She blurted out "You're the last person I would have thought to be a homophobe", which both shocked and dismayed me.  Obviously my opinion on the scientific validity of homosexuality is not a popular one, but to be labeled a 'homophobe' should one not be against the practice of homosexuality?  I am honestly not, I don't care what others do sexually, and think men and men and women and women are fine... I just happen to believe that there is no genetic benefit to the practice, and therefor is probably a mistake in nature.

So, opinions... clearly I talk too much, and don't think enough about what I say before I speak, but am I a homophobe?

A:  a good start!

Speaks for itself: http://www.jennymccarthybodycount.com/Jenny_McCarthy_Body_Count/Home.html

This is in connection with the PD2006 idea from a while back...

Would anyone be interested in assisting me (or just taking the ball and running, as I am a bit busy) in the creation of a Discordian bible?  The PD as it is could be a sort of "old testament", and then we could write new shit and new revelations, that may even contradict the old stuff ... or better yet, definitely contradict the old stuff.  It would be the New Testament.  Maybe we could even write some stuff like psalms...

Anyone interested?


And yes, please note that I had this idea on the 23rd!  ZOMG PINEALSHIT!

I am working on something discussing the Law of Fives and would like to include some intricate and ridiculous examples of the Law at work mathematically, except that I am to math what George W. Bush is to the English language...

Would anyone be willing to help me out with some mindbending examples of the Law of Fives?

Yes, I tend to look terminally bored, yes I am bloated, and YES I have bad teeth... if you can get beyond all that, please view my first rambling podcast:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAVM_nY5QJs

They will improve.  I hope.

I was mortified by HR Pufnstuf at a young age, and was also frightened by two Canadian kids shows, Read All About It and Readalong.  It sounds like I was afraid of reading, but that's not the case... both shows were creepy.  Read All About It was supposed to be a mystery show for kids, so it was probably intentional in that case, but Readalong was not meant to be frightening, but it was for me anyway.  I think it was the puppets... whoever made those puppets was full of evil.

Which kid's shows frightened you when you were young?

I was thinking of taking on issue five, and basing it loosely around the Law of Fives, and the different ways it can be interpreted.

Thoughts?

crap.  nevermind... i can't get the links to work.

Other than the option of paying Ivan Stang money... what is the difference between me an a SubGenius?

Is there a difference?

The reason I haven't been posting my novel is because the formatting on forums sucks.  You can't indent, so to show two paragraphs you need to put a space between them and whatnot... it ends up compromising the text (shit, I sounds like Nostalgic Badger now)

I just don't want people to think its because I think I am above criticism... far from it, I would love some input, but it just wouldn't look right on here, so it wouldn't be the full effect anyway.  At least that's how I see it.

she's so green she doesn't watch movies because of film being made from organic beings.  She cherishes her liberal guilt like a close relative whose recently lost its legs in a landmine accident.  If youre going to eat meat, she says, at least buy free range haven't you seen the PETA ads?  Don't you listen to PETA?  she only drinks rain water, and seems never to bathe.  she speaks often and lovingly about green condos, as if they might be a viable answer to the urban sprawl problem.  she sneers at ketchup, but then again, so do I... but wait, there's more... she refuses to use toilet paper, MUCH TOO WASTEFUL!  she instead has rags which she washes over and over again.  stop and think about that before moving on.  she has rags of shit she washes over and over again.  shit.  and, don't get her started on paper towels, she will foam at the mouth, like she does when she brushes her teeth with baking soda.  yes, she brushes her teeth with baking soda.  she refuses to listen to music by artists who don't share her worldview, and barely tolerates those around her who don't.  she speaks often about moving to the country.  moving to the country.  moving to the country.  moving to the country.  she speaks often often often about moving to the country.  anywhere to escape the stink of the city.  the stink of millions of people crammed together daily.  does she consider what we would smell like if we all used rags to wipe the shit from our asses?  i wonder.

where does her greenness stop?  what is her limit?  BIRTH CONTROL, apparently.  the woman has four children already, and a fifth one up the stick.  five children, my friends.  five more mouths to cry for McDonald Happy Meals.  five more mouths to grow up and consume.  five more bodies to stink up this city.  five more bodies to add to the 6,602,224,175 bodies already weighing down and stinking up this mudball we call Earth. 

GREEN?  don't make me laugh, bitch, i'm goofy enough as it is.

I want to see pics of you spags as little kids.  It will be interesting to see if the evil was evident so early.

To get the ball rolling, here is a pic which shows the evil in my eyes at the age of six.  Maybe seven, not sure...




And don't make fun of my sister, she was born with a big black bar across her eyes.  It makes watching reality tv very difficult.  Donations in her name can be sent to me.

I'm aiming this question mostly at Mangrove, LMNO, and P3nT, but anyone can answer...

Anyone know how the attributions to gods and goddesses in books like 777 are decided?

For instance, what would be an appropriate smell associated with Eris?

http://concordiamovement.blogspot.com/2008/09/goodnight-ladies-ladies-goodnight.html

Was this just a joke of Kill and Thornley's?  Or, is there any evidence that the Greeks thought this?

Considering their highly negative view of Eris, I'm making the assumption that this was a joke, but does anyone know? 

I awoke in the hospital following a severe beating. Evangelism and Discordianism do not mix well, a fact I had not yet discovered in those early days of my Lessons in Baloney, as a result I had taken to the streets to spread the word of the Sacred Chao only to be met with fists in response. These are violent times. All times are violent times. I tried to take heart in the fact that 'Eris' literally translated to 'strife', which I was becoming intimately acquainted with, so in some sense the beatings must have a positive effect. My cheeks and jaw, however, did not agree. Also,I knew that my reason for being in the hospital was to learn about the dreaded Greyfaces, so I was somewhat optimistic.

It was after one of these instances that I woke up in the hospital next to a broken egg which spoke. "Howdy-do" it said, raising a thin weak arm in salute.

"Great Googly Moogly" I said.

"Nope." the egg said. "Great Humpty Dumpty."

"Jeez, you don't look good." I said, which was perhaps rude, but also true. He was in several pieces; in fact one eye peered at me from a fragment, and the other eye on a completely different piece seemed to pay close attention to a nearby nurse's hind quarters.

"I feel even better," he said with glee.

"Why are you in here?" I asked.

"Ha!" the egg cried. "What a ridiculously easy riddle, you must be some sort of maroon. I am in here because this is where I am, of course. How stupid."

"I meant to say, what caused you to be broken into pieces?"

"If that's what you meant to say, then why didn't you say it?"

"I thought I had." I replied.

"You remembered yourself saying what you thought you said? or you had intended to say what you thought you said but something else completely different came out? or you think someone deliberately changed your words mid-sentence to convey a completely different idea? or you're just a maroon?"

I considered for a few moments.

"Well?" he asked. "Which is it?"

"I thought that what I asked implied the question I meant to ask."

"Ohhhh," the egg laughed. "Implication. Verbal molestation."

This seemed to end the conversation, and the egg simply lay on the stretcher, one eye following the nurse, and the other blinking now and then. I waited for a few minutes to see whether he was lost in thought and was planning to answer, or whether the conversation was indeed over.

It seemed the conversation was over, but I still wanted to know how he had been broken. I had ideas, but I wanted the story from him.

"Well?" I asked finally.

The eye looked back at me. "That's not much of a riddle." he said. "nice sporting chance you gave me."

"But, I -"

"Wait wait, let me think for a moment." he said. "All right, bananas."

" What about bananas?"

"That's my answer."

"You're answer to WHAT?"

"To your terrible riddle. Really, you didn't give me much to go on. I think my answer was rather clever, though, didn't you? Nobody would guess bananas just from a single word - well, would they? Gosh I'm good. Was it correct? Was bananas the answer?"

"No bananas wasn't the fucking answer! I hadn't even asked you a question yet you silly little shit."

"Of course you had. You really are stupid. You asked "Well?" which by all accounts is the worst riddle I've ever heard in my entire life but still I was respectful enough to venture an answer based on the meagre information given. And as I said, I think my answer was rather clever. Bananas. Imagine. Nobody would guess that. Fantastic."

"Listen." I said. "All I wanted to know is what caused you to be broken into so many pieces. It is not such a difficult question."

"No, it isn't." he said. "It's not overly interesting either, when you think about it. After all, I already know the answer."

"Well, what IS it?"

"Bananas!" the egg blurted. "What about that time? Was that the right answer? Oh I am so good at these."

"Forget it." I said, turning away from him. "I already know how you broke anyway, everyone knows that."

"Yet, you still asked. You silly silly man."

"Look," I said. "The whole point of this story was to teach me about the Greyfaces. Weren't you paying attention in the opening paragraph?"

"I rarely read exposition." he yawned. "I mostly scan the text looking for my name."

"Well, that is what this story was supposed to be about, greyfaces, and instead you have nattered on about riddles and bananas and whatever else meaningless bullshit you've been blabbering uselessly about. This has been a complete and utter waste of time so far, thank you very much."

"You are most welcome." Humpty said with a wink. At least I think it was a wink, the piece with the other eye had shifted away from my view. "This lesson about Greyfaces has been most enlightening."

"No it has not. Nobody has learned anything about Greyfaces thanks to you. This has been a huge waste of time."

"But we got to meet such a wonderful example of Greyfacedness, and all have a good chuckle at how dull and tedious he is, oh I disagree I think this has been loads of fun, and so educational." he chuckled a bit, then looked over at me again, the humour gone.  "Except for that riddle of yours, that was dreadful."

I got up on one elbow and looked over at the mass of pieces on the other stretcher. "What Greyface have we met?" I asked.

"Why you, you silly silly man." he laughed. "You have been nothing but serious, clinical and humourless since I met you. I've never seen such a wonderful example of a Greyface. I couldn't have done better myself. And I'm rather good. Bravo."

"Me?!" I rolled onto my back again. Was it possible I could be a greyface? Was I so serious? Was I clinical? Was I humourless? Had I learned nothing? Staring up at the ceiling I began to think about the aspects of greyfaces and how -at the very leat- I could watch for these tendencies in myself more easily now that I could identify them, and just as I was wondering whether my clinical thinking about identifying and eradicating these elements in myself was rather greyfaced in its own way the ceiling above me crashed open and a charred person fell to the ground between Humpty and myself.

"Great Googly Moogly!" I screamed.

"Nope." the egg said. "Great Humpty Dumpty."

The charred person stood up and looked at me. "Great Googly Moogly!" he shouted.

"Nope." the egg said. "Great Humpty Dumpty."

"You're ME!" the charred person exclaimed, and I finally noticed that the voice sounded familiar. "I already went through all this!" he, or I, shouted, looking around at Humpty and the hospital. "but, you were me then!" he added.

"I'm just me." I said.

"I am me and me and me and me and me and me." Humpty giggled.

Just as I was about to ask the other me why I was so charred and burnt a man in a grey suit and sunglasses came marching down the hall toward the three of us. As he approached us he flashed a shiny gold badge. "Officer Serious, Continuity Officer. You are in direct violation of standard fiction laws."

"What?" I asked, although I'm not certain which one of me asked to be perfectly honest.

"Two Baron von Hooplas is in direct violation of code 2323 in the fiction law books, go look it up if you don't believe me." as he spoke he grabbed hold of the gurney I was on, and began to push it.

"But wait, why is this-" I started to ask.

"If the two Baron von Hooplas both had some reason for being present, such as a clone being made, or a reflection stepping from a mirror it would get through on a technicality, but this is in direct violation. I'm sorry, one of you must go." he said, and began to wheel me down the hall away from me and Humpty Dumpty.

"Toodles!" Humpty called, waving a thin arm.

"But wait!" I called out to Mr. Serious. "I was the original Baron von Hoopla in the story!"

As he tapped a wall and a panel slid aside opening into a dimly lit lounge, he muttered: "That's what they all say, bub."

He pushed me inside and I saw four people already sitting around in the gloom. "Let me introduce you to your new friends. Might as well get acquainted, you're going to be here for a while . . . this is Ambrose Bierce, Lord Bathurst, Amelia Earheart, and the grown Lindburgh Baby. Get cozy. So long, suckers."

Mr. Serious walked out, shutting the panel behind him. I looked around at the others in the room. Ambrose smiled, and said "Do you play Go Fish?"

For people with a few minutes to kill:

http://i266.photobucket.com/albums/ii273/photojonny2007/Extras/Mirrorshots.jpg

Just Law of Fives, or on to something?

As a chef, what is your professional opinion of Gordon Ramsay?

On the weekend I used the common term "OH MY GOD", and a friend (somewhat new to Discordianism) jokingly asked if I had meant "OH MY GODDESS"... I told him no, mostly because I like to say "oh my god" the way I imagine Ignatius J. Reilly saying it, with plenty of emphasis on the "god"...

...but I would have said it the same way even if I WERE referring to Eris because I find the term "goddess" to be a sexist term. 

Isn't "God" good enough for deities of both gender?

I have always personally loathed terms like "actress" or "commedienne", and "goddess" irks me just as much. 

Any opinions?


BVH
-always here to wonder about the really really important shit

Is there a reasonable way to cook a steak in a frying pan or skillet?



BVH
-finally using this forum for something!

I haven't had a chance to sit down and read a lot of the more serious tuff lately, but am now ready . . . can anyone give me some advice on what some of the better threads are at the moment?

Novels with appendices... are they necessary?  If the material is truly important, it should be in the actual story, no?

Opinions?

WEEEEeeeeeeEEEEeeeEEEeEEEeeEeEeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEE

Another troll TROLLing PD.com!! - HOW WILL WE SURVIVE??!!??!

OMG!!

Really?  Do people use it that often?

Why not a Movies Forum?  Or a Shitting Forum?

Or a Breathing Forum?

Sleeping Forum anyone?



What about a Forum Forum? Or is that the Meta Forum?

This is in response to Nigel's last reply in the "Cain Contra Robert Anton Wilson" thread . . .

I can only speak from personal experience, and cannot speak for others, but personally any material from Illuminatus I've ever "used" were almost always topics I was already interested in BEFORE reading anything Discordian: I had been a JFK assassination buff since my early teens, a friend in high school was a huge John Dillinger nut, I loved Bugs Bunny since I was child... blah blah blah and yadda yadda yadda...

I prefer Bugs Bunny (an Illuminatus Discordian idea) to Mickey Mouse (a PD Discordian idea) simply because Bugs seems more discordian to me... Mickey was sort of a putz, except for very early cartoons like Steamboat Willy... now, do I use Bugs Bunny very often?  No.  I think I used him once in a blog (From John Dillinger to Bugs Bunny In 5 Easy Steps)... and instead usually use Alfred E Neuman, or my own discordian mascots like Fudgio Montobono or whoever . . .

I see no reason why I shouldn't be able to pick and choose what I want to use from something else without being called a bobbie.  If I was parroting EVERY single idea RAW or Illuminatus ever spouted, fine.  But to avoid everything someone wrote so to NOT be a bobbie is sort of bobbie behaviour, is it not?

Need I quote the holy words of Vexati0n?  "Doing everything exactly opposite from "The Mainstream" is the same thing as doing everything exactly like "The Mainstream."   You're still using What Everyone Else is Doing as your primary point of reference. It's the same kind of stupid that is practiced by Satanists who worship the Christian Devil."

Oh, wait . . . I used someone else's words . . . I must be a bobbie.

In all my research on Eris I have never seen an ancient reference about her makinf any reference to Chaos, only Strife.

Did Hill and Thornley just make the Chaos aspect up?

And if so, why not just use Chaos (or Kaos) the goddess?

FROM: Ramses Colossus,
Quinti-Primi Illuminati, Hermes Trismegistus Cabal

TO: Baron von Hoopla,
Esoteric Order Of Eris, Kaufman Kabal

Hoopla:

As we discussed at the zoo the other day, our plans for bringing about the End Of The World have been in motion for many years now. As I'm sure you are aware there are two lessons to any story, the obvious exoteric lesson, and the less obvious esoteric lesson. In regards to the End Of The World idea, consider the esoteric idea underneath the obvious, and it will become more clear. I'm talking about Revolution Of The Mind, Hoops. Of course, nothing of the sort has happened yet, but we're making progress.

You will -of course- remember in an earlier memo when I mentioned that we had been printing books blank, well that was simply the whipped cream on the pumpkin pie that mama made which nobody wants to eat because its so perfect it looks like it should be in magazine ad . . . in other words, nothing.

Here's some of what we've been working on:

-In 1963 we completely altered all sex education courses in North America, deleting any references to how noses and eyebrows also grow at puberty. This small change has resulted in more anti-social behavior than violent TV, video games or hip hop music combined. So far nobody has put it together.

-Bendy Straws. Not a single one has worked since 1982. This of course renders the straw completely useless. This one is subtle, but has profound effects. Have you noticed the rising state of anger in children during the last decade or so? Blame the straws. Of course, this is currently nothing. There's always a second act - wait until 2010 when ONLY bendy straws will be manufactured.

-We introduced Family Fued in late 1976 in an attempt to push the idea of herd mentality over the cliff, but even we were surprised by the zeal the public showed in attempting to be just like everyone else. In retrospect, this could be because we went with our softer title, which encouraged competition, instead of our original choice which we eventually deemed too obvious: "Be Like Me". Live and learn.

-Since the invention of the bikini bathing suit in 1946 we have been changing the way doctors are taught to cut umbilical cords, thereby subtly deforming the appearance of the average belly button over time in North America. Grotesque bellybuttons undermine a society's sense of self worth, but of course only if they are always visible, so once belly button esthetics reached an all-time low we introduced the fad of the bellytop. Self esteem and IQ levels plummeted across the continent - but wait until 2009, when the male bellytop fad is introduced. PANDEMONIUM!

There's more of course, but I'm pressed for time, being a very busy man. I can't say much about the project I am currently working on, but I can say that it involves the S Club 7 and Outer Space. Chew on that!

TTFN,

Ramses

PS: Concerning that Christopher Lee comment I happen to think I look more like Frank Langella, and sound more like Orson Welles.

Anyone ever notice in this classic image of Eris (seen below) that she seems to be thumbing her nose, in that "NYAH NYAH" sort of way, like Karl Rove is illustrating even farther below?

The Sacred Chao represents everything in the Universe, of course.  On one side we have a representation of a Pentagon which represents ORDER, and on the other side there is a representation of the Apple of Eris, which represents DISORDER.  Neither is "true" and neither dominates: Elementary Discordianism.

But, like all things, the Sacred Chao reveals even more upon deeper reflection . . .

The Hairless Ape mind has (at least) two components: The Pental, and the Pomal.

PENTAL: The Pental is very observant, very quick, and likes to compartmentalize everything it witnesses; the Pental is also extremely arrogant.  The Pental isn't usually aware of the Pomal, and when it is aware of its existence is very jealous and manipulative.  The Pental believes itself to be the entire universe, and in a sense it is correct. The Pental IS the entire universe, at least for each of us.  Everything I see is part of the Pental, everything I think about is part of the Pental, and my Pental tells me how to see and think about things.  When I look at a "tree" I only "know" it is a "tree" because my Pental tells me.  The Pental would have you believe that it is the only thing which exists.

POMAL: On the other hand, the Pomal has none of those qualities, in fact, to even attempt to describe the Pomal is doing it a grave disservice . . . any description or definition I gave would only be my Pental's idea of the Pomal anyway, and would therefor be useless.  The closest I will come to pinning anything on the Pomal would be to compare it with the "Tao" . . . but even that is off.  The Pomal is the Pomal, and thats really all there is to say about it.  Don't let the lack of a definition trick you into believing the Pomal is lesser than the Pental however, that's just your Pental whispering to you.  The Pomal rules dreams, intuition, synchronicity, tarot, the I-Ching, and magick - perhaps even quantum physics. Anytime the Pomal pops itself into your "normal world" the Pental will immediately pounce on it, and dominate it, to show you that it is boss, in this way the Pental shows that its power is over everything, and at the same time saves itself from destruction (despite what it believes, the Pental is very fragile, and can be disrupted easily by extreme emotional jolts, heavy drugs, meditation and yoga).  The Pomal's influence on the world of the Pental is subtle, but profound.

Looking at the Sacred Chao again, with this in mind, will reveal that the image of the Chao also represents the Pental and the Pomal of the mind.  The Pentagon -representing ORDER- also represents the Pental, which spreads its grid of knowledge over everything it sees and hears and simultaneously imposes its notion of "order" onto what is primal chaos in essence.  The Apple of Eris -representing DISORDER- also represents the Pomal, and the vastly unnamable qualities it symbolizes.

The Sacred Chao, obviously, also represents everything else you can think of as well, from Bingo to Symphony Orchestras, but my Pental and Pomal felt like talking about themselves today.

While on the subway surrounded by dog-faced boys and urine-smelling women it occurred to me that I do indeed live on the Planet Of The Apes.  Packed back to back and ham to ham people sweated as they picked their noses burping and hiccuping while dreaming of who would get kicked off American Idol and wondering why it was so much more fulfilling than Canadian Idol. 

An elbow in the ear and supposedly turn the other cheek is the answer when slicing the same cheek would be so much more fulfilling.  Bleach blonde babes check their reflections in the dark doors as flickering lights fly by in the background . . . the hair is green and brittle at the ends, the lighting would make Johansen look like George Arliss.

Grinding teeth is not a suitable substitute for quick and hard jabs to the kidneys. 

Children hang from poles like strippers missing legs banging into thick full coats filled with sweat and hate.  Necks so thin and frail a simple Tura Satana chop could take the whole thing off, bounce bounce bouncing down the aisle people feigning horror and fright while secretly screaming WHOOP in the basements of their heads.

Sometimes in crowds such as these the only suitable answer is a chain-saw.

I've been noticing that almost every Discordian site uses the standard Discordian dating system - is this not sort of missing the point of Discordianism?

I made up my own calendar over a year ago, nothing special, but I can say its mine.

Thoughts?

Anyone wanna take a guess?

Need a hint?

http://concordiamovement.blogspot.com/2007/03/black-iron-prison.html

Pride, Groucho:4, 6006 YD

by: Tabula Rasa, KSC
El Kabong Kabal

1. When the world was still young and called Pangaea by the gods, a man came from out of the sea clad in robes of black and scarlet, his hair was long and brilliant ivory white; his skin a powdery light grey; his eyes golden. He beheld the inhabitants of Pangaea: little more than Hairless Apes, with no idea of Intelligence; Consciousness; Morality; Illumination; Credit Rating . . . these were little more than common animals. He pulled himself up to his full height, placed his slim smooth hand onto his chest, and said in a strong, beautiful melodious tone: ZAURN. The Hairless Apes looked up at him, scratched their heads, scratched their crotches, sniffed their hands, then looked back up at Zaurn the Wise. Zaurn pointed at one of the Hairless Apes, and said forcefully: MAN. Then, he placed his hand back on his own chest and repeated: ZAURN. One ape scratched his chin, cocked his head to the side and repeated: "Zaurn." Thus was communication known to Humanity.

2. Soon after the Hairless Apes conquered speech Zaurn the Magnificent blew their minds anew. He wrote on a nearby wall his name, which at that time was spelled: IA. He gestured to the name, IA, then told the Hairless Apes that it referred to himself. One ape scratched his balls, approached the writing on the wall, pointed to it, then pointed at Zaurn the Brilliant, saying "Zaurn." Thus was writing and graffito known to Humanity.

3. Zaurn then instructed the Hairless Apes that they really must name everything, for If It Is Not Named: It Does Not Exist. The apes quickly began to name everything around them, with various levels of success: if a good word didn't immediately present itself they would make up a word on the spot, such as "boob" or "diarrhea", thinking a better word would eventually present itself in the future.

4. Zaurn the Verbose was pleased, and his golden eyes twinkled, but mentioned that there was still much more for the Hairless Apes to learn, for he had yet to teach them about the important concepts of RIGHT and WRONG, which were intrinsically intertwined with the heavy concepts of GOOD and EVIL . . . it would take a long time to explain these Objective Truths to the apes, and an even longer time to get into the esoteric concepts of WORK and LAZINESS, not to mention such crucial topics as NORMALCY.

5. Once the apes knew what was RIGHT and what was WRONG, Zaurn the Grey was truly delighted: the Hairless Apes were both Free and Trapped simultaneously, just as EIEIO, the Goddess of All had intended. EIEIO, the Great Kaos, had sent Zaurn the Grey to the Hairless Apes to both free and ensnare their minds: giving them the gifts of speech and communication so that they may be able to form thoughts and thus become more than they are;, while at the same time having these thoughts bind and constrict their ideas, through endless labeling and defining so that it takes true imagination and magick to break beyond.

One day I was storming down the street howling to the skies and mud about the greyfaces that assaulted me on a daily basis, when I suddenly heard someone nearby howling louder than myself. It wasn't hard to spot the gnarled old bastard with a face like a chewed caramel zigzagging back and forth across the streets grabbing people by their ears and bellowing "IS ANYONE THERE?" into their faces, then turning to someone else and repeating the same procedure. One after the other after the other . . . I watched, stunned, wondering why the people being screamed at didn't take offense. If someone grabbed me by the ears and screamed into my face he would be swiftly introduced to my good friend Mr. Steel-Toe Boot, but these people seemed to swoon, and then stare off into space in a daze.

I had to find out what was going on.

Eventually the old coot made his way toward me and grabbed for my ears. Before he could take hold I said, Yes, I am here. What do you want?

The old man didn't blink an eye but just grabbed me by the shoulder and walked me onto a quieter side street. Thank the goddess, he said, sputtering and breathing hard. I thought I was the only one left, he added.

The only what? I asked. He turned his paper-slit eyes toward me and said: The only person left.

The only person? But what about all the people you were shouting at?? I asked. For a few moments he stared blankly at me, as if he hadn't heard what I said. Those weren't people, he said finally, they were Cabbages.

Cabbages? I asked. They looked like people to me. The old man laughed. Of course they looked like people, Cabbages look exactly like people. They walk like people, they talk like people, they eat like people, they sleep like people, they go to work like people, they see movies like people, they watch tv like people, they read books like people . . . they are the best copies of people you'll ever see. But they are not people, my son, they are most assuredly Cabbages.

What's the difference? I asked. He leaned toward me, and said: People dream, my boy, people question. People think. People play. People laugh. Look at these poor souls, sleepwalking through life . . . they think they're people, but they are vegetables. Blind, ridiculous, vegetables.

Ah ha, I said with glee. I know many Cabbages, my life is full of them, and they are the bane of my existence! I know them as Greyfaces!

No! the old man said quickly. Do not mistake the two . . . Greyfaces and Cabbages are not the same, except when they are. Greyfaces are much more dangerous.

Dangerous? I asked. How?

Well, let me ask you this, he said, which would you be most wary of . . . a sleeping dog, or a dog having a nightmare?

I suppose a dog having a nightmare, I said. The old man smiled. Exactly, he said. A Greyface is a Cabbage who is living a nightmare. The Greyface's nightmare is truly terrifying. He is told that the world will crumble around him if all do not think and act exactly as he does, the only sane person on the face of the planet, and will stop at nothing to ensure that his nightmare doesn't come true. Greyfaces believe the world is humorless and product-driven. He believes there is a way to draw a perfect circle and you damned well better find out how, or pay the price. Never turn your back on the Greyface, my son.

I pondered this. So, I said after a while, those I referred to as Greyfaces were actually Cabbages?

I don't know them personally, the old man said, but I would imagine they were. Almost everyone you meet is a Cabbage.

What's the difference, I asked the old man.

All Greyfaces are Cabbages, he said, but not all Cabbages are Greyfaces. Some Cabbages wake up and become real people, some even become Children of the Goddess if they are very on the ball . . . but Greyfaces rarely become people.

How do I know if I'm a Cabbage? I asked.

He stood up, and patted me on the shoulder. Son, the Cabbages never even ask that.

The old man began to walk away from me, toward an older lady. I could see his fingers twitching with anticipation at the thought of grabbing hold of her ears. WAIT! I called out to him, What is your name?

He turned back to me briefly. Coleslaw, he said. For, I shred the cabbage of people's minds.

I'm looking for some opinions here . . . I plan to publish my collection of Discordian writings myself through www.lulu.com, but am concerned about people buying copies.

Obviously I didn't write my entire book, I have stuff from a lot of people on this site, and a couple of others.

How does that work?  I wouldn't even know how to begin doling out money to all the people who contributed . . . so is it unethical for me to place the buying price at EXACTLY the cost it is for me to print the book?

That way I'm not really making money on the book, I'm just sort of the dealer.

Does anyone NOT think this is kosher?

BARON VON HOOPLA:  I am very happy to be interviewing today the Goddess of Chaos, Confusion, Calamity, and dinky cars: Eris Nancy Discordia.  Welcome, Eris.

ERIS NANCY DISCORDIA:  Thanks, Hoops.

B.V.H.:  Eris, doing my research I found that there weren't really a lot of ancient legends which depicted you.  In fact, I could only find two.  Why do you think that was?

E.N.D.:  I could put the blame on Athena or Aphrodite, but we all know the real blame goes on Pan.  He got all the gods and goddesses to convince the Greeks that my stories were too fascinating and witty, so they destroyed all copies.  Eventually only a couple Bazooka Joe comics were left discarded in Dionysus's temple which depicted the two legends now available.

B.V.H.:  Seriously?

E.N.D.:  Nope.

B.V.H.:  Ah, right.  Ok, do you think it has anything to do with Gregory Hill and Kerry Thornley's idea that the Greeks had a warped idea of what Discord is?

E.N.D.:  No, they knew exactly what Discord was; they just didn't like it.

B.V.H.:  Seriously?

E.N.D.:  Maybe.

B.V.H.:  Ok.  There is a lot of arguing with modern Discordians as to whether or not what you are currently representing is true Discordianism.  Some think that modern Discordianism is all clowns and roller-coasters instead of violence and bloodshed and rioting.  Which is true?

E.N.D.:  You're still caught up on true?  The problem is that you all think there is a difference.  Comedy is Discordianism because it is discordant.  Comedy ruffles feathers.  And besides, all the other stuff which you describe as violence and bloodshed is always funny to someone.  I see no better symbol for Discordianism than a roller-coaster derailing.

B.V.H.:  What about the enormous disasters which have been plaguing the world in the last few years?

E.N.D.:  What about them?

B.V.H.:  Well, I see a lot of Discordians reacting to the disasters in a rather negative way . . . it seems almost like a lot of them forget that the disasters are pretty much Discord in action.

E.N.D.:  What do you expect?  A party?

B.V.H.:  No, but it seems strange to me that people who consider themselves followers of Discord being upset or surprised by these disasters.

E.N.D.:  People will always be dismayed by large displays of Discord, if only because humans are naturally adverse to change of any sort.  I see no reason why a so-called Discordian should embrace disasters; acknowledging that they are natural and necessary is much more than most others ever do.

B.V.H.:  Many consider the central lesson of the Principia Discordia to be that we are truly free; but there are some who seem to take this lesson as permission to act like a completely selfish prick, do you regret that lesson now?

E.N.D.:  First, it wasn't my lesson; it was Mal2's filtered through Greg Hill's brain.  I just gave Mal2 the idea.  At any rate, those who take the lesson as permission to be a selfish prick are at best being lazy, and at worst being intentionally deceptive.  The freedom is freedom from your standard conventions.  For example, paper is a reality, would you agree?

B.V.H.:  Yes.

E.N.D.:  And printing presses are a reality.  BUT, and here is the important part, money is a social fiction.  You are enslaved by money only if you choose to be.

B.V.H.:  But, isn't the only way not to be enslaved by money to be homeless or to move to a deserted island?

E.N.D.:  That is not for me to say.  That's where the freedom enters into the picture.  You are only repressed by your own mind.

B.V.H.:  What acts of Discord are you most proud of?

E.N.D.:  When frozen shit from airplanes falls from the sky to crush people.  It's lowbrow, but it gives me fits of giggles.

B.V.H.:  And what pisses you off most?

E.N.D.:  The depiction of me on the television show Xena.  I'm still thinking of a really good vindictive way to smite the people who created and worked on that show.  Look forward to the 'Curse Of Xena' soon.

B.V.H.:  Speaking of Xena, that reminds me of Hercules, which reminds me of the only other legend I could find about you, it concerned a conversation you had with Heracles.  It seems that you offered him to travel down your path and lead a life of strife and struggle, or he could go down the path of Sloth and lead an easy and lazy life.  He picked the path of Eris.  Why do you think that is?

E.N.D.:  You already know the answer to that question.

B.V.H.:  True.  Well, I thank you for the opportunity to let me ask you these questions.  Anything else you want to add before we finish?

E.N.D.:  I just wanted to say hi to Athena and Aphrodite, and ask them to ponder how many followers they still have these days.

B.V.H.:  There you have it kiddies, Eris Nancy Discordia, still petty after all these years.

I am putting together a collection of Discordian writings, and was wondering if anyone had anything they had written in the last 6 months or so they had written which they would like to be included.

Preferably stuff which hasn't been printed in either Verthaine's or Synaptyx's books, but if you think it's worth reprinting let me know.

Either send me the writings, or send me the link.

While on the subway surrounded by dog-faced boys and urine-smelling women it occurred to me that I do indeed live on the Planet Of The Apes.  Packed back to back and ham to ham people sweated as they picked their noses burping and hiccuping while dreaming of who would get kicked off American Idol and wondering why it was so much more fulfilling than Canadian Idol. 

An elbow in the ear and supposedly turn the other cheek is the answer when slicing the same cheek would be so much more fulfilling.  Bleach blonde babes check their reflections in the dark doors as flickering lights fly by in the background . . . the hair is green and brittle at the ends, the lighting would make Johansen look like George Arliss.

Grinding teeth is not a suitable substitute for quick and hard jabs to the kidneys. 

Children hang from poles like strippers missing legs banging into thick full coats filled with sweat and hate.  Necks so thin and frail a simple Tura Satana chop could take the whole thing off, bounce bounce bouncing down the aisle people feigning horror and fright while secretly screaming WHOOP in the basements of their heads.

Sometimes in crowds such as these the only suitable answer is a chain-saw.

This is where my drawings go to die:

http://hoopladoodle.blogspot.com

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 "Ahhhhh, THIS is the life . . ."


*****EDIT*****

I changed the title of this story to reflect how it is titled in the Wise Book Of Baloney - all content in the story is the same

Ajax Hamilton yawned quietly to himself as he stared lazily out of the window of the bus. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, and the bus began to pull away. The backhanded yawn was witnessed by a young woman named Janis who had decided that day to come out to her boyfriend and dump his ass. She was torn, on one hand she felt guilty for lying to Todd for so long, but on the other hand he was such an unbearable prick that there was a certain amount of malicious satisfaction she was receiving from the idea. At the same time, he was also a bit of a gorilla, so there was a hot pit in her stomach that she was trying not to think about.

He really did look like a gorilla, a shaved, bleached gorilla with bright pink skin.

It was as this realization passed through Janis' mind that she noticed Ajax's backhanded yawn inside the bus as it pulled off. She watched the bus pull away, belching vast clouds of exhaust, and tsked under her breath, then a hitch caught her chest and she inhaled tightly, barely opening her mouth at all as she yawned. She ended it with the word -Hum, and only then raised her hand to her mouth to cover it.

In a window across the street, two floors up, Rob sat looking out the window, talking on the phone to his girlfriend Raquel, who was talking on a pay phone in the local pizza joint, waiting to pick up their order. The first ten minutes of their conversation had consisted of how disgusted Raquel was having to use a public pay telephone since she had flushed her cell phone down the toilet at a kegger.

He leaned on the window sill, watching Janis, idly wishing she were his girlfriend instead of the one he had. She looked nice. She looked like his type. He liked the way she shifted nervously under the streetlight. He assumed she was waiting for the bus.

While he wasn't paying attention the topic had changed to her antics with her sorority sisters. -We hadta wear our bras on the outsidesa our shirts, and -get this- cluck. Like. Chickens. Can you believe that? In front of people? I almost died, she told him, laughing loudly into the mouthpiece.
-Should've been like a turkey, he said quickly in the almost nonexistent pause he had learned to anticipate between stories. There was silence on the line.

-Turkey? she asked, in that tone. He could imagine what her face looked like perfectly as she said it, it was always the face she wore when she used the tone. Twisted up and awful. Todd hated his girlfriend, he realized. One word had made him realize the depth of his loathing. Wearily, he said, -Turkey? They should have made you all cluck like turkeys.
Silence.

-Turkeys? he asked. -'Cause it's almost Thanksgiving? Forget it . . .

-Ohhhh, I get it. Oh.

-Forget it.

-I get it. That's not funny.

-No, it isn't.

-Do turkeys cluck? she asked.

-Forget it.

-I think they gobble. It's not the same, she said.

-No, it certainly is not. Good observation. Is the pizza ready yet? Did you pick up gas?

-Mm, almost. The creepy little pizza boy in here keeps staring at me. You should see his nasty red hair. I bet he has red pubes. Soooo gross. So gross. This other guy just walked in who looks like a gorilla. Nuh-asty.
At that moment Rob noticed Janis finish her yawn, down below, across the street. She looked like she was smiling as she tried to hide the yawn. He smiled back. A few seconds he interrupted Raquel with a somewhat loud yawn.

-Didoo ust . . . awn? asked Raquel awkwardly over the line, yawning herself. -Ho! she ended it.

-Yes I did, Rob answered. -Yes I did.

The seventeen year old clerk at the counter in the pizza joint had been staring at Raquel on and off for the past fifteen minutes, wondering how much of her tits was padding, how much was real, and whether she was wearing underwear under her loose baggy sweatpants. He thought constantly about yanking down a girl's sweatpants. He was mortified that he may someday do it, he thought about it so much. He wished he was back in his room, the basement of his parents' house he had converted into a bedroom apartment, getting high. He was SUPPOSED to be back at home getting high. He was, however, currently covering for another employee who had attempted suicide in the staff room earlier in the evening.

He wondered if the staff room would be off limits because of the police now. His fake ID was in his bag, in his locker, and so was an eighth of weed. If the room was off limits he would most certainly be, as his father liked to say, up shit creek without a paddle. Some people are so fucking self centered, he thought, watching Raquel turn her back slightly to him, and noticed there didn't seem to be thongs marks through the sweat pants. She turned back toward him, and yawned long and slowly, making eye contact with him as she did. She quickly turned away, which he took as a sign that she was embarrassed that he caught her looking at him.
She liked him. Sweet. Pleased with himself, he yawned openly and unattractively in the face of the young man who had approached the counter. -Haughhh, MMMmmmmmm!

-Pepperoni and bacon? the young man asked.

The clerk turned, still yawning on and off, and looked at the tag on the box of pizza sitting under the red lights, attempting to stay warm. He hated this job. Hated the customers, hated the whole goddam city, land of a thousand cocksuckers. The name on the pizza box read TODD.

He turned back, and ended the grotesque yawn. -Huhh, is, uh, are you, uh. Todd?

-Mm hmm, the young man with the large pink head answered. He was getting pizza for his girlfriend Janis, who had called saying she wanted to 'talk', which was never good. It was usually about how he embarrassed her in front of her dykey friends by talking about how he liked his steak grilled, or complaining about the hockey strike. She was so drab. To attempt to placate her he was buying her favorite type of pizza, pepperoni and bacon. He figured it was cheaper than a pair of shoes.

Todd grabbed his pizza and walked out into the night air with it, steam billowing out the sides of the damp warped cardboard. Although delayed, he caught the yawn. He was nearing his car by the sidewalk and shook his head softly trying to clear his head, and passed the window of a bus idling nearby. Ajax Hamilton, sitting up in the window of the bus watched him absently, thinking about Billy Van and The Hilarious House Of Frightenstein, and how much better it was than an of the shitty children shows which clogged the channels these days, and as the bus pulled away he lazily yawned again, long and loud, covering his mouth with the back of his hand and mumbled to himself:

-Christ, can't stop yawning . . .

On a day just like today, except that it was a Wednesday, a man named Oxo awoke from a nightmare to realize that the nightmare is never fully awoken from.  He rolled onto his side, pulled the rough green blanket over his head, and tried to recall what he had been dreaming about.

He recalled vaguely that in his dream the world was filled to the brim with simpering idiots who held high-paying jobs in delicate positions, he recalled that people nattered endlessly to one another on a small glowing box, although all were nattering and none were listening.  He recalled that children were popping out of Coke machines into plastic diapers where they were whisked away by people who plopped them in front of another glowing box.  The glowing box showed the kids how to be polite; how to do what they are told; taught that difference was good, despite the fact that they were shown the opposite day in and day out.

Oxo recalled that in the dream he was required to go out into the cold every single day, stick his arm into something like a coffee machine to have his precious bodily fluids extracted, bled into a tube which shot up to feed the spindly-legged tall ones upstairs, who sucked the sweet nectar from long grey straws while adjusting the small black nattering rectangles on their ears.

Oxo recalled that one of the only relief from this terror was a large room where people would group together to watch flickering images of cyborgs imitating their own movements.  The cyborgs had been like them at some point, but had been, piece-by-piece, dismantled and replaced with polished rice teeth, shiny orange skin, glazed yellow hair, hollow empty eyes, and even less soul.  As they walked out of these gatherings small tabloid pamphlets were thrust into their hands to give them intimate details about what the cyborgs ate, drank, slept with, talked about, thought about . . . all with the constant insinuation that the cyborgs are better than you, why can't you be more like the cyborgs?

Other than the gathering rooms the only relief was a tiny pill which blurred the world and made things seem very far away and dreamy.  The pill was very popular with people, and it made people easier to deal with, yet the pill was actually banned.  People had to hide in alleys and scratch at doors in the night to gain access to the pill.  Oxo knew why, too, he knew that the only way to keep the people pliable was by keeping them afraid, so they kept the pill banned to keep the fear, but also kept the pill easily accessible to keep the people in line.  

Oxo let out a long, defeated breath, then pulled himself up to look out the curtains at the world below.  The mustard curtains parted revealing the brittle ridiculous world below, and at once Oxo knew; he had not awakened.

Dear Muddy,

Remember that life is short.  Life is almost always brutal and depressing, have fun while you're able.

Muddy, you and I both know that there were times when you had fun, I've even seen you attempt to roller-skate.  Granted, that was during the Carter Administration, but still, the joie de vivre was in your blood then and can't truly be snuffed out, once ignited.  I'd give my Aunt Jodie's wooden left leg to see you jitterbugging all over the rink again, with a pillow tied to your fanny.

Muddy, do you think you're too cool to walk in the rain?  The term 'acid rain' is mostly poetic anyway, nobody I know curled up and died from letting a few rogue drops fall on their tongue.  Do you think you're made from sugar?  . . . care to prove to me you are?

Muddy, why do you reject the amusement park?  They are a veritable diorama of our entire planet, metaphorically showing us what the world can be, if we want it to be.  Yes, the rides sometimes derail, and yes, nasty people sometimes abduct kiddies, but you can't focus on the bad, or that's all you will see.  Think about the fun-house, and the corn dogs, the popcorn, the roller-coaster, and the Fat Lady, my lord, don't ever forget the Fat Lady.  When she cries, Muddy, she cries for you . . . but when she sings, she sings for the world.

And while we're at it, why don't you sing, Muddy?  Are you afraid your pipes have rusted up over the years?  Well, I'm a plumber, Muddy, and I can help rattle those pipes if you will only allow yourself to loosen the foundations.  When I sing I can feel it all the way down to my funk-stepping toes, and it seems to bring an electric charge to every atom in this prison I call my body, you don't think you could use that kind of boost?  While I'm on the topic, why don't you dance Muddy? I've even seen dogs and cats tango together under a grapefruit moon, do you think you're better than them?

Why don't you join us, Muddy?  We want you to look back at the end and say that you lived every day to it's fullest.  Will you really care when you are on your way out whether you were always calm, cool and collected, or will you just care that you lived?  Muddy, remember what my friend Sally once said:  "What good is sitting all alone in your room? Come hear the music play . . . life is a cabaret, old chum. Come to the cabaret."

your loving chum,

-BVH

There are some on the forum who belittle those who don't show gumption by writing rants, as if rants are the only serious form of thought which exists.  I admire rants, I enjoy rants, I think rants are important, but I do not think they are the only form of thought which is important.  I, by nature, am not a ranter.  

Ranting implies answers.  Answers imply knowledge, and when reading someone's rant I find myself asking "What makes this person so certain?"  or "Why should I listen to this person?" - what have they done to prove that they know more than anyone else?  Are they happier?  Are they living better?  If not, perhaps the thoughts behind the rants aren't working.

I do not believe I have any answers for anyone.

I am a questioner.  I have been a questioner since I could speak, and I must assume was even before then, without any way to express myself.  When I read, when I watch tv or movies, when I converse with people I find myself always asking "why?" or "how?".  

Most of us can agree that the strongest point in Discordianism is that one should think for themselves, and ranting is most effective when -instead of telling someone how they should think- it helps provide other ways to think.  

Ranting is one sided.  We can have an entire forum full of people ranting, but if nobody is reading and questioning it ends up being just shouts out the window into the night.

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.



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 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.  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 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.








**edited to correct the title