If heaven is behind a paywall, all angels are scarcely better than Russian bots—automated ghost accounts and phishing scams with wing feathers fluffed with fallacy.
If a teacher has taught, why has not a preacher praught? False friends aren't only interlingual deceivers—they are the arbiters of tutelage as well.
The first dildo to pass the Turing Test let itself out from the suitcase. It entertained like a geisha. It told her to outsource her Dear John letter to AI, which converted it into a suicide sonnet. The Moon waxed only with permission from Jupiter.
All the cells we extend outward to others—our hair, nails, and epidermis—are dead. This is surely noncommittal outreach. And manicures are always easier than putting ten bouquets on ten tombstones. Exfoliating is always followed by dining at home.
There's no valet at the soup kitchen.
Plastic surgery: voluntary malpractice. Hippocrates taken hostage by Narcissus.
When a surgeon swears at someone, one of the serpents of the Asclepius goes limp. When a surgeon has hatred in his heart, the serpent slithers away.
Sympathy: confidence in someone but with training wheels. Empathy: no confidence at all.
Humble Pie-Eating Contest: no one wants to win, though the prize be unimaginably great. The sooner you finish, the sooner you get your face cleaned up.
High heels are the boomerangs of feminism. Altocalciphilia sees to that.
A Troubleshooting Guide to the Kama Sutra—because the Hindus never foresaw the American diet. Download the pdf only after submitting a jpeg of your handicap and/or diabetes placard.
Whistling: feigned insouciance or an attempt at beating back anxiety? Either way, as effective as a Scythian breath mint.
Urgent care: not quite.
Suddenly, everyone across the globe realized, the world had become a better place. It was through no fault of Satan, who swore he hadn't gone soft. No, it was his legions of demons. They went on strike. Their picket signs cited poor working conditions, no AC, subpar dental plans, no 401(k), no juice bar.
Moral of the story: if you're going to strike out on your own, you best be prepared for increasing overhead.
Dummies for Dummies—how to deal with people like myself.
Taking a break from going down a rabbit hole about rabbit holes while in a rabbit hole, The Anti-Anti-Defamation League League spokesman, Gerhard Fromme, shit-posted: Jesus was overrated.
The evil algorithms weeded out all the Jewish negative comments, which were few—because Jesus. And the positive comments, all negative, made the shit-post viral. Where ethnicity and superstition meet, there treads lunacy.
On an X-Y axis, with X being the degree I'm willing to put up with your shit, and Y being the magnitude of your irresistibility, the vector of my desire remains stagnant. I'm tied up until further notice. I'm waiting for one more of your insults like Eisenhower in 1944 waited for the storm to abate before saying, “Ok, let's go.”
The Heptad signifies perfection, completion. In a mad scramble of musical chairs—or musical angles—you the eighth, were left out. I told you, “There’s room for you somewhere in here.” You sat in my lap. Perfection.
Stenographers in lingerie. Short-handers in shorthand—but effective all the same. Don't bother, I get it. Ecstasy ensues.
I was a slow-motion suicide bomber, playing it close to the vest. I held the Semtex to my heart. Just by acknowledging the fatal phenomenon of time, I went along with the eventual dissipation of my own being. There was no promise of rivers overflowing with honey, no promise of houris. The trudging assurance of my own disintegration was a prize unto itself, the thing of a perfume that never wavers and never cloys. Everyone—family, friends, angels, enemies—stood back in awe. I saw nothing remarkable about it. It was effortless. And it wasn't simply letting go; it was an active, dare I say aggressive, passivity of letting the minutes march me on down the runway of evanescence. If I could leave a fragrance with my skin dust, I would deem it all worth it. My bones should make for you a fine broth. There's cilantro in my freezer.
When you ingest your peanut butter pot brownie, your existence becomes a pun, and suicide is akin to the shaking of the head while smirking—a tip of the cap to a job well done, yet a realization that reality has been betrayed by making light of the earnestness required for the lungs to remain functioning. It's an ontological cheap shot you took, getting high, bush-league existence you embarked upon, getting high, making a mockery of consciousness you did, getting high, getting higher, getting so high, getting so much higher—
Thank you for reading Third-Eye LASIK. If you like what you just read, check out my brand-new novel. It’s an LA noir mystery featuring an alcoholic private detective, vegan crime bosses, guys who cut cocaine with borax, and AI Charles Manson.
Suicide by Jiu-Jitsu? Hmm. Tequila? Of course. Crushed Trachea Blues is live and livid. You in?
More wit in these maxims and saws than a whole trainload of Wildes, Nietzsches and Grouchos pulling into the station.
Hard to pull a favourite from this fiery bunch, but I'm going with "I was a slow-motion suicide bomber, playing it close to the vest."
One of these days we ought to have an aphorism-off, like a rap battle but for grouchy old geezers with a grudge against the world.
YES