How To Do Just About Anything (2nd)

Escaping Unpleasant Chores

  

Scenario:  You find yourself having a perfectly lovely time, lying on the couch, maybe reading a book, maybe doodling, maybe napping. Generally at peace with the world.  Suddenly your parents, spouse, children, housemates, Cthulhu, whomever rush into the room looking frazzled and ask you to run errands. On any other day you are a helpful, generous team player, but today… Today you are beyond comfy; you have transcended mere slack to the level of the Ultimate Chillaxer (which is level 9).

What do you do?

Solution: Quite easy really, gaze into the eyes of the aforementioned whomever and say the magic sentence, “I’d really like to help baby, but you know, Zeno’s paradox and all.” 

 

Moral: It’s useful that public school doesn’t teach philosophy because most people cannot argue against Zeno’s paradox only because they have no idea what it is.  Or, 3 cheers for laziness!  

 

The Ongoing Saga Of Our Feckless Leader (pt.1)

To Be Read In the Voice of an

Announcer for a 1950′s Movie

Preview: 

 

Oh good God! Our feckless leader is at it again.

One woman wrestling manfully against her own innability to articulate meaningfully her innermost, swampiest, duskiest desires.  

She wishes to prepare for the ceremonial shouting from the mountaintops.  The Declaration of Desires with two capital “D’s.”

Waking before dawn each day she runs one hundred miles over the Jagged-Glass Mountains and through the Plains of the Eternal Blizzard.

Barefoot.

She spends thirty-two hours a day in quiet contemplation and another sixty-eight in group therapy and another fifteen with sports psychologists and at least seventy-eight hours a day making crass jokes over caffeine with her Oldebest friends.

She does push-ups, chin-ups, pull-ups, squats, lunges, grunges and primal scream.  

She does Tai-Chi, drinks chai tea, practices Qi-Gong and Kung-Foo.  

She’s aquainted with existentialism, feminism, chauvinism, asceticism, animism, Buddhism and nepotism.  She’s on speaking terms with both Proust and Faust.  

At the top of the mountain her turn will come and shoulders back, head high, lionish hair blowing in the wind she will mount the plinth, and behind the podium her lips will form a perfect, silent “O.”