i go away a lot, but i always come back.
november ninth, twenty sixteen: i woke up and thought to myself ‘something’s…..different.’ i soon found that biff tannen had ripped his way through the fourth wall of cinematic fiction and into this supposed reality, regained possession of the futuristic sports almanac, and wrested control of the white house (bob gale, a writer for back to the future II, has acknowledged that the rich, powerful tannen is based on someone who recently became king of America—google that), giving rise to a wave of ‘alts’—facts, wings of the right, and of course timelines. within these alternative timelines, expect quite a few of them to legalize pussy grabbing (some in more lawyerly language, some not so much), and in those where a female version of tannen assumes power, an equally degrading form of something called dong conking.
none of that really matters, though. the only thing i ever worry about is me, of course, which is why i have emerged from a months-long hiatus to make it known that i am not fake news. that’s all. i’m expecting many of these alternate timelines to produce executive orders shutting down any and all outlets that do not acknowledge the supreme insight and godliness of our new *rutaceaecean* figurehead of american greatness. so, as of this writing, the official stance of the philosophunculist blog is that america has been made great.
and speaking of biff tannen, was it really so bad that he got to be rich, if only in one timeline? in all three movies, dude gets smothered in poopy, which is what we have to assume is happening to this current commander in chief in every other timeline. just let the guy have one feces-free life, alright?
back to me. this blog is very real. it’s not even news, therefore it can’t be fake news. when the witch hunt for publications of ill repute commences, please don’t censor me. i’ll do anything. grab my pussy (in a timeline where i am a woman). conk my dong (in the timeline where the king is a woman. or even a man. i don’t care. if the masculine king of america wants to conk my dong, i’ll take it. years after this, when i’m homeless because all workers have been replaced by robots and the children and friends of the king, i can tell passersby that the king of america once conked my dong, and they will reward me with a russian ruble.) just let me keep this blog. it’s really all i’ve got, until america achieves an even greater level of greatness and me and everyone i know gets rich from working at our jobs (before the robots take over) because america will be that great
*i sort of made that up, but it has a base in rutaceae, which is the citrus family, and i know that doesn’t help my ‘not fake’ spiel, but due to its base on a real word, it can’t be classified as fake*
I was watching a PBS documentary where a guy in a tobacco field was talking about the ingredients of dirt.
That’s not what we are here to learn today, though.
A different part of the same documentary dropped the knowledge that camels originated in North America, not the Middle East.
Here is a legend:
During the Middle Ages, a learned woman named Joan may or may not have risen to the rank of pope by disguising herself as a man. Google Pope Joan if you like.
This brings us to the quote of the year, so far. In The Secrets of the Tarot: Origins, History, and Symbolism, Barbara G. Walker writes:
“Whether Pope Joan was legendary or not, a strange Vatican custom appeared after what the church insisted was not her reign. Candidates for the papacy seated themselves naked on an open stool, like a toilet seat, to be viewed through a hole in the floor by cardinals in a room below. The committee then had to render a formal verdict: Testiculos habet, et bene pendentes—-“He has testicles, and they hang all right.”
The men of the church would rather gaze up at an old guy’s scrotum than mistakenly allow a woman to assume power.
Free will vs. destiny. Nature vs. nurture. Anarchy vs. order. Is the ‘real’ world actually a dream, and the dream world ‘real’ life? Could an all-powerful deity create a rock too heavy for itself to lift? If Joseph Swan had not invented the modern incandescent light bulb, would someone else have figured it out, or would you be reading this blog by candlelight, or whatever illuminating device had been invented (or not) in lieu of the candle? Would you rather be beaten to dead, bloody shards in front of everyone you know by a pansexual street tough named Rocco in the alley behind a skin bar, or be eaten and digested by a wildebeest horde in deepest Africa, while your fate forever remains a mystery to your loved ones?
Volumes have been written by history’s most probing thinkers on these subjects. And now, another great question to heap up onto the proverbial philosophical pile (an interesting side note regarding piles: when does a pile cease to become a pile? If you remove one thing from it, is it still a pile? How about two things? At what point does ‘some stuff gathered together’ transform into what we know as a pile?) that will leave you awake at 3am, wondering why you have to be out of bed in three hours to go to a job (which, unless you produce sustenance, is virtually pointless), to earn money (which, as a manmade creation, makes it no more meaningful than say, a high score in Tetris), so you can buy food (which, if you are resourceful, is available for free in nature):
Here goes. Imagine The Beatles, widely regarded as one of, if not the, greatest and most influential rock bands of all time, had not been known as The Beatles.
Envision this: everything about them stays the same—the look, the musical evolution, the album titles (excluding 1968’s The Beatles), song names, etc.—only at their outset they chose an incredibly immature or offensive name, like ‘The Fart Men,’ or even better, ‘F(censored)k.’
Would music scholars and fans and snobs and critics openly argue that The Fart Men are the greatest thing ever to happen in modern music?
‘The Fart Men are waaay better than the Rolling Stones!’ Would you say that to someone?
Would they have gotten radio play? Radio DJ: ‘It’s 3 degrees here in the Twin Cities, let’s heat things up with a little ‘Norwegian Wood’ by F(censored)k!’
Would George Martin have relished being known as the ‘fifth Fart Man?’
Would millions of screaming girls have bought into ‘Fart Men Mania’ in the ’60s?
There’s no way we’ll ever know.
It’s my own fault, really. I wasn’t paying attention when my sandwich was being made right in front of me.
I got home, bit into the sub. It made a whooshing fart sound, then deflated. I opened it up. The general layout was an embarrassment. The few ingredients in the sandwich were concentrated in the middle. A few pickles, a light splattering of black olives, a couple of tomatoes. Even the cheese had somehow withdrawn and puckered. A total of two pieces of green pepper were visible.
I’ve never had a Subway Sandwich Artist drop this kind of bomb on me before.
I would have gladly eaten a sub prepared by a Dadaist or Surrealist Sandwich Artist, if it would have gotten me more than four banana peppers. The sandwich I crave needs someone, maybe and Expressionist or Impressionist, who isn’t afraid to bombard the sub with rich, girthy, experimental swaths of ingredients, and more than one pass with the mustard bottle. But a Minimalist? I love a diversity of styles, but Minimalism has no place in Subway.
This sandwich artist was clearly rejecting the bombastic array of rich textures and colors before her in some sort of sick rebellion against the norms of conventional Subway Sandwich Art. I wanted a sandwich that would make me feel like this:
But got this:
Next time I go to Subway, I will be asking the potential Sandwich Artist to display a catalogue of previous works, as well as a list of creative influences.
From the opening line of The Communist Manifesto—“A spectre is haunting Europe–the spectre of communism”—oh baby, that’s good—to the last four sentences–“Let the ruling classes tremble at a communist revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win. Working men of all countries, unite!”—Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels had me hooked.
How about this tasty lick: “In this way arose feudal socialism: half lamentation, half lampoon; half echo of the past, half menace of the future; at times, by its bitter, witty and incisive criticism, striking the bourgeoisie to the very heart’s core, but always ludicrous in its effect, through total incapacity to comprehend the march of modern history.”
Who could forget this pungent whiff: “In political practice, therefore, they join in all coercive measures against the working class; and in ordinary life, despite their high falutin’ phrases, they stoop to pick up the golden apples dropped from the tree of industry, and to barter truth, love, and honour for traffic in wool, beetroot-sugar, and potato spirits.”
And what about the rich imagery of this: “The robe of speculative cobwebs, embroidered with flowers of rhetoric, steeped in the dew of sickly sentiment, this transcendental robe in which the German Socialists wrapped their sorry “eternal truths,” all skin and bone, served to wonderfully increase the sale of their goods amongst the public.”
I was so enveloped in the writing style, I didn’t absorb any of the ideals or theories put forth, except that Marx and Engels did call for income tax, as well as free public schools for children, so Amurica’s got a lil’ communist in her after all.
Anthropology lesson: At the dawn of humanity, all men had beards. If a man couldn’t grow one, he was clubbed over the head with a mammoth femur, defecated on, and tossed off a cliff. By a guy with a beard. Why such harsh vibes toward the bald-faces? The reasons:
1) In those days, due to the life expectancy of early humans, an 18-year-old was considered to be a seasoned old man. Here in the present, he would be equivalent to any run-of-the-mill septuagenarian, in terms of longevity. Yet, unlike any run-of-the-mill septuagenarian of today, these “wise old” 18-year-olds were very capable of getting their breed on. Any man that didn’t have a beard by age 18 was believed to be possessed by impotent demons. As mis amigos Mexicanos would say, they were no bueno para chaka-chaka.
2) It’s natural for beards to grow. From the wisdom of the Taoists:
“Let everything be allowed to do what it naturally does, so that its nature will be satisfied.”
And if your face doesn’t naturally grow hair, its nature will be dominated and destroyed by someone whose face has the nature of beard-growing, because it is natural for humans to mock, hate, torture, and ridicule things that are bizarre and weird to them.
And so the thesis goes—women have deeply-ingrained sensory receptors that tell them to be wildly attracted to men with beards, because that is the natural way of evolution, the ultimate symbol of fecundity and virility. As you walk the path, women will tell you that too much facial hair is quote “nast” and that you “have peanut butter sauce in your beard.” Valid points? Of course. This doesn’t mean that the most remote regions of their mammalian subconscious mind aren’t whirring, wheeling, and enveloped with images of beards dancing circles around their heads.