Wow more thoughts

I’m stumped by the question: “Is pain good or bad for us?” At first I say it’s bad, because it hurts. But, on second thought, I admit, pain is only doing its job—it’s just trying to help us stay alive longer, when it mails us a letter that says: Stop touching the white hot burner!

But, really, after all these centuries of development culminating in our species, is pain still working? I say that pain is antiquated—it needs to be revamped and modernized; pain still assumes we’re all amoebas. Pleasure, too, is pretty stupid, when you think about it. Everyone’s working for the enemy. And there’s not even an enemy.

One thing I hate about democracy is that it’s always telling me to get involved, to do my part. As if we’re all one team. Do we even share the same goals? I’m told I’ve got to vote, otherwise the bad guy wins. And then a few years later, I’m told I’ve got to vote all over again.

Why can’t voting work more like eating and drinking? After sipping one brandy, you remain inebriated for life.

So the good guy gets elected and starts making incremental changes for the better, very cautiously. (One mustn’t ruffle others’ feathers.) But when the bad guy gets into office and commits his mayhem, entire civilizations are annihilated overnight. Why does badness always get to move so fast?

Cause it dares to do so; and it doesn’t care what you think. Goodness wants to be loved. Badness abandoned that pipe dream long ago.

It’s like lying. If you’re willing to lie, you can win any argument. A whole room of prudent truth-tellers can be razed to the ground by a single barefaced liar.

The caveman days were the best, because a jerk who was big and strong could simply strut out of his cave and steal all the stuff that he needed: he didn’t have to hunt; he only had to enter his neighbor’s cave and drag the choicest bison carcass away. And he’d pummel his neighbor on the arm, first, just to prove he meant business.

But soon the Einsteins of Cave Land made a discovery: they found that, although they remain weak as individuals, they prove stronger than the brawniest thug if they all band together. So that is how street gangs were invented. It was a sad day for us bullies, because our popularity ratings decreased.

Yet then one bully discovered that, by becoming a member of this Nerd Club that the Einsteins devised, he could participate in its electoral process and become the Big Boss Man—so his lot grew ten times better than before; for now he had a whole gang of twerps at his command, and the robbing of the community was performed with increased efficiency (they had graphs and charts to prove this).

Nothing can stop you, if you’re willing to deceive and cause harm. If you lack natural muscles, just get yourself a gun. Contracts are legally binding, but here’s a helpful tip: instead of waiting for your day in court and then getting sentenced to a lifetime at summer camp on account of a breach, simply find the parties to whom you’re legally obliged, and pistol-whip them. Any rational person will alter the contract to your satisfaction, once they’ve been pistol-whipped.

But here’s the bad news for bullies: Unlike regular angels, bullies have no tail to swish the flies away. Plus, bullies develop unsightly wrinkles around their eyes, from years of scowling; and it is not uncommon for a bully to require surgery for breast enlargement.

However, here’s the good news: Your muscular, towering physique will earn you many friends and followers when you are young. And later, when you are elderly, feeble, sickly, and tottering on the brink of death, your well-paid militia and its assortment of explosives and firearms will guarantee you the foremost place at the nursing home.

That’s why I think that we should return to the old system of having one almighty king who rules the universe; and his term should be for life. No more messy elections or political advertisements.

Even if the king expires, his son takes his place. For instance, if King George the First keels over, simply crown King George W-2. And if W.W. III ever rests in peace, phone the next of kin. (Use the speed-dial function: it’s easier.)

But if it comes to pass that there are no more successors, and the royal line of sons is like a river dried up; then take the person who was standing closest to the king at his final hour, and perform an emergency inauguration—“you know, a quickie” as his neighbor Ruth says to Officer Rough in the film Wrong Cops (2013).

When I was about preschool age, I remember being in awe of the local skateboarders, because they were mangy and unkempt. I recall that one of them always wore the same t-shirt, day after day—it was a black shirt with white writing that said: SKATEBOARDING IS NOT A CRIME. As a child, I thought to myself: “But skateboarding is a crime—it’s a crime against panache: for who would skate when we know that Alfred Jarry rode a bicycle?” But I mastered my outrage and recalled the words that Saint Saul wrote to the Corinthians:

I have fed you with milk, and not with meat: for hitherto ye were not able to bear it, neither yet now are ye able. For ye are yet carnal… (I Cor 3:2)

This leads me to a point that I’ve been wanting to make for a while now: Why don’t we consume the flesh of our deceased ancestors? That which caused them to stop living was a clogged heart or a sprained ankle—the flesh is still good: it should not go to waste.

Let’s say that you purchase a motorcar, and you name it after the 16th U.S. president. Now, one day, as you are driving, your engine’s combustion chamber, cylinder block, crankshaft, crankcase, and camshaft all spontaneously crack up and crumble apart like egg­shells, because of God’s will. However, just then, right up the road, parked on the shoulder, as if it had been waiting for you since the day you were born, you see a motorcar identical to your own—it is even named after the very same U.S. president—whose engine’s combustion chamber, cylinder block, crankshaft, crankcase, and camshaft are all in pristine condition. Now here is my question:

Are you really going to let a silly, outdated taboo prevent you from transplanting this creature’s heart to save your country?

But now, say that, instead of a car, it was a boat parked up ahead on the road—even a cruise ship; and this ship is the prized possession of your heavenly Father. And, although the engine is working fine, its furniture could use some reupholstering.