Ummm, the taste of need, satisfies me.
I once thought that questioning was a sign of honest exploration, I know better now.
Now I can see how it can be a way of remaining intellectually detached.
"Your mother was a whore?"
"What did you say?"
"I didn't, I was only asking?"
The presumption from the negative.
"I am not a fireman."
"Then what am I?"
"It does not matter, as long as I know that I definitely am not a fireman."
I "know" but not knowing.
Take the
Douche-Bag and his existential dilemma.
He does not understand, yet he knows that what is implied is that he should not be absolutely confident about anything.
Then what is left to this coward and simpleton?
Now that God is dead, what now?
Take the
British Princess....she knows that she finished a course or two. She is not certain that she knows what she is talking about, simply because she can refer back to authorities, mention a few famous names and repeat an idea or two.
Same with a Christian imbecile. He "knows" because he can repeat a Biblical passages; he can refer to some infamous authority figure; he can regurgitate text.
He is thinking simply by not....like a compute....it just regurgitates information without having to comprehend it.
Now back to the
Douche-Bag raising little douche-bags to his heart's content.
What's the point of thinking anything, it ruminates, if what is though is uncertain?
This is the old argument from the Judeo-Christian: What's the point of life with no God?
I would answer but there is no point to it.
The real audience sees it, and little Billy is waking up to it with his conflict with the
British Princess and her error concerning the Pan and/or Satyr character in the painting.
Even the painter calls him
satyr yet the princes insists on calling him
Pan...because there is more at play here than wenches pulling a mythical character towards the water.
But what is it?
The
British Queen cannot tell you, unless she's been told or she finds it in some book.
The Douche-Bag cannot say, unless its declarative and certain like: "I ma Conan! Meed good, milk bad!!"
Imagine, for a moment, floating down a river or a barge with the idiot
Douche-Bag by your side.
"Where are we?", you ask..."We are here," the
Douche-Bag, responds.
Simple, straight, certain.
"But we are on a barge floating down a river", you respond...and he looks at you confused and dull-eyed like a fucking cow.
His brow shrivels and his shoulders haunch: "We are here, damn it!!!" he repeats pointing to the surface of the raft as it floats down the river, on a planet rotating around a star which is circling a galactic core, which is hurtling through the void...."We are HERE!!!" the idiot repeats, thinking it is making a point. "Me hungry...me eat...me phi....phi....philosopher'"it finalizes its poem just it was taught it by its retarded mommy and daddy ten six decades ago.
No doubt the morons it has birthed will repeat the same poem, as if it were wisdom.
The
Douche-Bag tells itself that it is seeking wisdom, that it is indulging in philosophy, when all it needs is a simple declaration: "I am here".
Its "philosophy" consists in justifying its own stupidity, its own simplicity, its own certainty: "I am here!!!!"...or "the cup is on the table"...or "truth is out there".
Back to the
British Queen, all six foot sever of her.
Cunts can grow big in these times of testosterone austerity.
Having had her ploys made inconsequential and her little gossipy-gossip rendered immaterial, she now settles for insinuations which point to a hidden power which she is unable to present, despite her formidable credentials and her popularity amongst the cows.
Imitation is all that is left to her. Casting the defensive aspersions she is confronted with as assaults, hoping something will hurt, will land, will do some damage -enough to make silence reign, returning the herd to its usual munching over Kant and Plato and Wittgenstein.
Remind me of that scene from Goodwill Hunting
Bar Scene....he's the moron with the pony-tail and the diploma.
Only difference being that this queen of education will be in the unemployment lines wondering why she spent so much time and money getting an education which makes her another princess waiting in line to be fucked.
I imagine all six foot ten inches, three hundred and twenty pounds of her just as pathetic and stupid and uncomfortable as this movie caricature.
A bitch like that can only hope to get her ass kicked by a"simple" blue-collar someone in a pub, or in a fast-food joint waiting for his fries with the burger she ordered.
Why, the fuck, did my ex wife divorce me?
I never got an answer.