Misplaced & Misspent

Last Tuesday, over near that other place, I heard a fellow say that trying to be truly intelligent under ordinary conditions was like having a forty acre farm on thirty-five acres.

This week’s Come-On-And-Let’s-Stick-It-To Words gambit, to wit:
Is anything truly “misplaced” until you realize it is?

Okay, Brandenburg Variation, Opus One:
Is anything actually “misspent” until such later time as you might come up a penny short?

Under the local conditions of this planet, “true love” would seem to be a passion A has for B that drives B nuts…(or did I miss something?)

Questions rococo, answers terse.  Oh, okay, we can execute a 3-D expansion of this and admit to the validity of its vicey versey:
First voice:       “Remember, you get what you pay for.”
Second voice:  “Don’t threaten me!”

J.

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Just A Hobby

After a few rounds, and rhomboids, one tavern philosopher would ofttimes verbally ruminate on his most favored subject, “The Abominable Splendor of Guilt.”

Keep reminding yourself,
“It’s just a hobby.”

Rituals arise from someone who was once on the way to somewhere getting lost, then getting frightened, then making up a desperate ceremony to ward off the shadows of confusion and fear.

If it’ll make you famous, it’ll make you sick.

A certain city poet announced, “The lie that flatters, I abhor the most…I mean, adore the most…I mean…ah, check with me tomorrow.”

J.

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News Not Known

In the City, no matter where you look, it’s always somewhere else.

News not known
is news no more.

No matter what they’re called, all awards given in the City are for stupidity, uncertainty, or outright failure.

Question of the Day:
Why be afraid in a supra world?

Keep in mind: The Real Revolutionist might find his loophole in the contract with Life.

J.

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A Glimpse By Any Other Name

The possibility that you may actually MEET famous dead people may be the only rational basis for fearing death.

A glimpse by any other name
is still a glimpse.

Has anyone ever asked, “What’s going on here?” who really wanted to know?

There is this one ole hanger-around out near the high side of the Bushes who insists that time is feminine.

Don’t bother to live-and-learn if you’re not gonna bother to live.

J.

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Acts

From the Book of Nevers:
Never believe anyone who denies it.

While brooding over his oatmeal,
a man mused aloud, “Cheap ideas are just like cheap gin.” 
And his wife said, “No they’re not,”
and he said, “Oh.”

There’s this spin-dried med-school dropout who still contends that the Elementary Canal is where simple foods are digested.

I suppose that if it did come to it, a Revolutionist COULD “eat ‘em alive.”

All acts are just that.
All acts are just what they seem.
All acts are better than they look,
and a really GOOD act
won’t come back to haunt anybody.

J.

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Palendromic Bullets

There is an ancient martial motto that says, “No one provokes me with impunity.”  And can you glean how devilishly clever it is for Man’s intellect to be so insulated as to speak of other Men, whom they CAN attack, as the provocateur, and not Life?

Words are like palindromic bullets;
that is, with slugs on both ends.

Life doesn’t discriminate against anyone for any known reason.  Then again, it does so to EVERY body for EVERY known reason.

Men who can tell you “how they got to be what they are today,” can’t tell you shit.

P.S.:  Be ye not dumber than your sovereign.

J.

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It’s All Second-Hand

No matter what the advertising says, no matter how much you pay, it’s all second-hand.

A Revolutionist who depends on another person has put back on a suit and tie.

All human catastrophes
begin on someone’s tongue.

(Same is true for minor irritants.)

There IS no way to correctly use the language.  In the City, proper speech is just another illusion.

There is this certain City philosopher who periodically falls over into some kind of daze.  He lies still for a bit, and then begins to shake, kick and blink his eyes rapidly, while loudly proclaiming, “The key word is overnight!

J.

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For the First Time Again

One guy asks, “If education is as all-mighty important as they keep saying, how come they don’t recommend random drug tests for college professors?”

Everything a Revolutionist discovers
is for the first time again.

One ole sore head said he was now beginning to believe he’d be reincarnated, and upon hearing this all the dead people said, “Hey—don’t look at ME.”

Believe it or don’t, but I met yet another guy, and this one (as guys are wont to do) said that he would explain to strangers his terrible mistakes and blunders as simply his support for the continuing power of Habit.

Once the king had fully grasped the meaning of “hypocrisy,” he said, “There is no need for you to speak this word disparagingly, for to rule, it is as necessary as is an army.”

After one City father told his off-spring, “God wants you to do better,” the brat replied, “I will if he will.”   The elder paused, looked off and pondered, then snapped back thinking, “I gotta quit listening to kids.”

J.

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Secrets

In what is, by some, perceived to be a desert of philosophical, if not penetrating, pleasant pronouncements, this one gentleman loudly proclaimed, “If I was any happier I’d wear my socks backwards.”

Secrets
cannot be systematized.

Almost every morning, this guy could be seen scurrying around his backyard, his hands a-fluttering, and him making a kind of “shooshing” sound—His mate explained that he’s trying to “shoo away time and space.”

One father, just before he died…(ah, he wasn’t really dying, he just told me to tell you that), whispered to his son, in a shout, this final, exit advice:  “Don’t pose.”

Remember our oh-so-secret motto:
If it ain’t fun, it ain’t This.

After a life spent in these affairs revolutionaire, one person griningly admitted, “I now seem to ‘have-life-down’ to having just one aim…and the best part is, I’ve got NO idea what it is!”  (And that, my friends, is a revolution well spent.)

J.

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Credulity Fully-Wrinkled

Contraire the street-level truism, man does not continually “reinvent himself.” What he does is endlessly reinvent that which Life has invented through him.

The sure fire sign of the truly rich is that they can pay someone else to make mistakes for them. (And it goes without saying that the same should be true for the extremely courteous.)

While passing the City landfill, one of the more recent local “thinkers” approached me with this bit of wit:  (he wiped his hands clean and said), “To be young is to be incredulous; to be mature is to possess credulity fully wrinkled.”

One kid scared the parboiled hell out of his ole man on one weekend morning when he announced, “I have made a momentous decision!”   (And of course it goes without saying…)

Their mother’s voice drifted throughout the house, “All right, all you children who want to laugh and have that kind of good time, you’re gonna have to come out of the basement, and do your playing upstairs.”

J.

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