Deh Maust Empertentest Kwodes fram Hizturee (perd wan uv aiet-mylye'n)

"I guess you could call my asshole a way-station of sorts. People don't stick around very long, but all sorts come through.Oh! The stories I could tell you!" -- Friedrich Nietzsche

"Hardly anyone ever comes to rustle my jimmies anymore. I dunno, things are different these days, man." -- Leif Ericson

"I once ate at a Chinese restaurant. It wasn't terrible." -- Amelia Earhart

"This is not a poem
Seriously, I mean it
Don't pretend it is." -- Lana Del Rey

"No thanks, I'm not into pottery. I had a traumatic experience as a child, and I never want to talk about it ever. [sobbing]" --Dave from down the street

"If you ever quote me on this I swear to Jesus Almighty I'll wear your face as a loin cloth." -- Frank Sinatra

"One time, I tried to see how many jelly beans I could snort. I got to like 21 before the blood got too thick and I had to stop." -- Margret Thatcher

"Being born with one arm is, like, just one step closer to becoming a fish... right?" -- Woody Guthrie

"Sure, maybe it doesn't matter now, but one day, probably some day soon, you'll look in the mirror and realize what you've become: a sad, washed up hack scraping by between hits of morphine, horse tranquilizers, and metabolic steroids. We're all sick of your shit, Goofy." -- Mickey Mouse

"When I was your age, I was stabbing out commie eyes with a butter knife." -- Emily Dickinson

"Never forget the golden rule: keep 'em laughin'." -- Joseph Stalin

"Oh come on! You're shitting me, right? Five fucking dollars for a goddamn sandwich? Literally - hey, asshole! Are you listening? Literally,I would rather eat my own shit than pay you such a ridiculous price." -- Shirley Temple

heh...

The other guy: howd our butts taste?

Me: sorry for feedin y'all our buttholes

Son: i washed mine

Me: hope ya liked the flavor

Son: prolly still tasted like butthole doe

Me: spicy

Me: yet tangy

Son: hint of creme fraiche

the other other guy: lol

The other guy: wuts funny the other other guy

the other other guy: you guys know each other?

The other guy: wanna share

The other guy: u know me?

The other guy: ?!!! HUh?!

Son: whut neva

The other guy: NO WAI

Me: i know jesus

The other guy: FOR NEVAS

Son: who told YOU

The other guy: I WOUD NEVAS

the other other guy: lol

Son: i wanna know!

Me: he knows me

Me: too

The other guy: shaddup u mangy mutt.

Son: you mutty mng

Me: I FOUGHT IN WATERLOO

The other guy: the other other guy join our club

Son: *mang excuse my french

Me: COCKMUNCHERS

The other guy: we r satanists who bang each other

the other other guy: lol

The other guy: in the face

Son: also make hummus

Me: on da regular

The other guy: LOL!

Son: homemade

Son: tasty

Son: high in protein

The other guy: from our butts!

Me: hmmm... us?

Son: makes your butthiole tangy

Me: ^^ full circle

Asshole in your Butthole

asssss

Dat Life Grind

I'd have to say that today, in a way, I'm layn'm slayn'm; gettin' on dat life grind -- you know the kind. I went to the shop this morning don't remember what I bought, but let me tell you I sure it be hot on all that.. There's nothing to it if you catch what I mean when I say it, knaw it and thaw it under the sea. Dat's dat grind I'm feelin' -- ya feel dat?

It's been a while since we've graced your pleasant ears and eyes with our almighty ambivalent, presence, and might I say that in our absence, we've been quite prolific. The amount of things we didn't do, words we didn't say, galoshes we didn't galosh... It's quite literally unthinkable. Try to think of it and you'll see what I'm saying. It'll come to you. In a vision of the omniscient kettle of the sun's radiant image. I'd be lying if I said I were lying bout that one, folks!

In sum kinda summary -- Don't say a word. They don't know anything that we do

Love,
ya Ma!
JK it's pete.

Asshole in your Butt Hole

*For Stinky*

So simple , 
No
So...
Supple
Aye?
Ehhh, mah mama mah mama she say. 
Never dun gonna go
Down that way no mo
Not today, or yester. 
Let it fester in ya wound
Til my boy Lester coming thru
Gonna pop out den kneecaps 
For through the trees I do plead hats
Do rain down upon us 
Pterodactyls are in me
I find myself cringing
The ptero the ptero the ptero 
The pterodactyls are in me
Wayside court side
At the ol Kentucky classic
I found the sideways
Sandwich
From whence the world cometh
And mine eyes
Did temble
At the smelly abundance 
Of its presence
O! How I amped onto its holy smell. 
I reeked for days, sucka! 
God, I coulda killed a god today. 

With the dump I took in the fump of my crumpet today is a trumpet on which I do lump it thru time the old shrimp bit of which I am biskit. 

My mind is bisquik
The kind that u cook wit
Billboard on the street
Told me its secret
And that I took
To the bank, I did

Agree! A great! A Greek! 
Or so you thought before...
Before...
The incident
That's why we talking bout Islam folks. Preach
I shall folk it all if we weren't incident creatures oh so meager. 
Meter. Parking. Do the math u jackabond of long don whackathon. 

Let us rejoin the hot doogens, 
For they will non-shtugen the booden foe's mead, 
Aye, that of ol' Hammer Fist, Gremlin-Lung Feaster. 
Ah! Yes! 
And all around the fire too!
Who did not think I would be invited?
I shudder! 
So shall you all

Ear-beard bakes a naked cake
The sons of Petros
Make the metro on time 
Quarter-marking the market
West-side Trojans fight
Southeast pita. 
Vengeance tastes just as fine as hummus
Hmmm... Us?

Raiseeee it --> The Banner, oh baby! <--- an arrow!

Caked in the sunburnt stench of unfiltered Camels, I waddle farting into a small sterile building humbly titled 'Ethiopian Restaurant'. Here I stake my claim as an authority of the Working Man. Day in, day out: I wait for customers. Don't misread - I literally sit on a flatulence-coated swiveling chair, sniveling as I wait for someone to enter this globforsaken place. He hathent forsook it vengefully as cosmically far as I am concerned, but for the abhorrently apparent absence of Good Taste amongst these scum-ridden suburbanites, may they all rot in a vat of their own Excrement. Meanwhile, I flick the occasional boogie, pick the odd bum, and bequeath myself to an incessant barrage of gossip between Boss-Lady (racist) and Genuinely Good-working Guatemalan Guy (practically a pus-pocket of pity. Eternally moments away from violently exploding on my facial features). I heroically stand in as working medium for the respectively petty gibberish each slings, yet which not a one of us can respectively understand. I have found that a stern "Wow - Gee! That sucks" concludes matters rather abruptly after the fourth or fifth go. Oh sure, I manage the time to spoon feed utter nonsense to my tables in the hiatuses around these clandestine "fuck that person!" sessions, but trust me (and why would you not? I am a stolid beacon of veracity): my unofficial job here is illiterate diplomat. I effectively negotiate terms by means of guttural vocal noises and primitive, potentially crude hand gestures (coincidentally, how I also conduct business promotions to customers - we are a refined and inviting hearth to all who uphold the Banner of Un-Cunts).

Dear Allah. GGGG (check the reference, twerp) just informed me of yet another past job of his that far exceeded this one in wage, grandeur of task, freedom: sleeping in an 18-wheeler, waking only to make sure no outlaws (the vicious pieces of dogshit) stole 500 precious pounds of sawdust bread while the driver lurked through brothels on a quest for methamphetamines and/or purpose (however, given such a purpose, one ought still assume the meth to be obtained). Between his enthusiastically tootheless grin and my drug-worn hippie derp, I like to think of it as a conversation. Ojala que el no leya esto.

Returning to the Banner! It is crucial that Boss-Lady contracts a bouncer (read: one with an affinity for bouncing) for the sole purpose of publicizing our corporation's firm stance regarding customers of cuntish variety. They are to be refused service at all times and verbally abused if appropriate. We have a Banner to care for, after all. Lest one slobbers a contagiously moronic remark our way, we employ the ol' Scream 'n' Cream strategem. It appears that blank space (although this, "blog," as it were, is theoretically infinite in space, this doctrine was inscribed on a dear friend's upper thigh so do bear with) as well as my patience for these misanthropic musings amidst such myopic monotonies of existence are running thin. Better choke down the last crumb of angst before I ladle any of it on one of these fucking fiends' plates.

Until equivalent rage/disgust,
Your Righteous Bannerman of Veracity & Un-Cunts

Just Words are just words

Tis a pleasure to make your aquaintance and welcome to the continuing story of feeble-mindedness and scientific inquiry! And what a story it is! We left our hero at home, so instead we'll use this pencil - look at it! - So this pencil is, uh, makin an omlet. For the king of science. And he's struggling, what with his not having arms and all, (plus he aint the sharpest one in the box! [that's Ted.]) but he suddenly realizes he was a cactus hallucinating he was a pencil the whole time! Now here's where it gets really confusing.

The, pencil that it be, was, as it were, no longer inside the cactus - how could it? For the jam jar certainly wasn't a pine tree! Four times, I checked if it could be, but alack! Indeed, who could say, in such a decisive manner, that the cactus, instead, was apart (or, perhaps, a part) of the pencil? Certainly not I! Pursuasive as it may be to think such a thing given the facts, the facts, as I have called them -as I have seen them - have been neither by "not me". You, being not me, are clearly included as "not me," and heterofore ought to have used a tad bit more discretion in your appearantly blind acceptance of the unknown! For shame!

THE END... --~..~

Wow, wasn't that a powerful tale? It's based on a true story, you know. You know you scamp! Don't gimme that look! I don't even want it. Seriously though, you keep it.

When enough's not enough,
I'll be there

Anti-Semantic Banter within Barrington

You earned it, jackanape!
It's about time we fessed up here at Primo Kebab: Pretty Tommy Noble. We've strung you, our devout readerships, along a severely incoherent sequence of excerpts that seem to bear little to no meaning or worth. However, that is the meaning, so ya done. It's all coming back now, there's nothing you can do to stop it! Nyahaaaah! Fear me, or fare ye not too well in the futuroo, eh hneh hyoo?

Now that we can all agree on the fact that there is, indeed, as the studies hath showethen, a walrus involved in a hippopotamus scheme (the whereabouts of which are currently still yet unknown to mankind as of today yesterday) against the fabric of what always and forever will be Steve forces (read: Steve's forces - an elite group of wildebeest trained in social activism), there's a lot on our plate! The collective plate of unifying consciousness, Kay? Em? EN?

En inglEs, por favor.

Steve,
Forces ever!

Whose shoes are these?!

They're certainly not mine; at least i dont think so. Shoes? Nooo way, boss. Not me, no way, no how, not neva. But alack! "Not mine" isn't a specific enough definition! So the answer, my friends, remain ambiguous. Fuckin' ambiguity! The bane of our need to know all the shit about everything! But I say why know when you can not! Heavy stuff, I know, but bear with me. Rawr! Fuckin salmon and honey! Yeah! Anyway, I mean to say what I already said. So if you don't get it, that's the point! Ya gaddarmnied carmurblik!

Look at this! What is this?! It's the plight of a generation! People are being pulled apart by horses in the streets! Don't believe me? Well fuck you! I say what goes on! So anyway, pulled apart by horses! The most pressing moral issue in the world today! Some say it's cruel and unusual punishment; some don't. Either way, both sides have a compelling argument. So the problem continues! To plague over our entire society. In the literal sense. Bodaba bwahdabwahbwaow!

In the interest of time,
I Left the Change on the Counter.
Yours,
Welcome

Dating with Aged Relatives

So you wanna date a rock, eh. Like 65 million years old kinda rock, ya gramma ya great auntie what have you be it so, move it Capitan. It's not exactly accepted by the society gremlins (I call them "people with convictions", or "pieces of shit", for short) so you'll have to keep it sneaky, get it? Yo got me? Shall it continue? Are we tightly embraced as if on the peak o' the Eiffel Tower on a romantic outing with an elderly relative? No, fuck that bucket of bison-puke, we're on the Space Needle with cocaine-covered shnozzes and thousands of purple flowers in our hair, get on The Level why dontcha. I'm in a super position right now, and I'd like to share it! But you gotta give me something in return that's just how it woiks you goddamn fooligan. Fool me again. Heh, noooo way no cow get outta here. Give me some flowers or a milkshake or some shit. Real classy. Shall the salsa go on folks? Slow my roll if it shan't, really, I insist, who are you kidding, get the fuck offa me, d.

You gotta be sneaky, alright. That's all I'm saying. I know I've said a lot of fucked up shit in my life but it's really all been about that central claim: sneakiness - key. Key baby. Key to my heart, unlock it with love you dirty schmuck (may he rest in peace). Not gonna try to be jocular here, bisons. No-no ain't nobody going to like it if you go down that dark path -- and Believe Me, You -- shiiiiit's dark. But when you have a button to press, it demands pressure. Press away me lovelies. Send it to the Press. aweounacwdivunaiweurf AWEORIAN DFJFIIII XNIEME Iznugi. thuiodddd. czxciu erthu anjkoi dfah.

And you can quote me on that last bit; the rest was nonsense.

- The Glass Man

New Hip's Hop: What "words" is

The doughnut. A feat of modern engineering in it's own right, sure, but what's more is the figure of it's being! How can one find a more perfectly designed object to be placed over a spoke or ladder leg perhaps! Why is the question I'm sure you're all asking; why should that be the qualification for the most perfectly figured of all foods? Why not perhaps the food most similar to a perfect cone? Or some other quality, whiche'r you like! Don't be picky, Picky! Well why the heavens not I say! Understand it. Be it. Now, move on!

The dearest issue to our heart here at Primo Kebab: Insanity's Only Cure is none other than the indoctrination of thought! Thought with all it's meanings and concepts! Thought, the only reason for thinking! Thought the thing you're thinking about right now! Thought thought thought thought tought tought thought thought thought! What does it even mean anymore?! But the sickest shit of the whole shitshow that thought makes is that you have to think about how fucked up thought is! You've got a sick, sick brain. It disgusts me. And now on to our next picture, SuperHappyFunSaladTableParty...Lamp.

It's so well lit, you might just start having fun while you eat a table made of salad in a super happy party. It's got the most useless information that's ever emerged from a donkey's anus in over a fortnight! Literally, over a fortnight. You hearin' me, boss? Boss o' the Trees? For one we fall, for trees we ball? Yak yak yikkidy yook ya get it, I'll move back to the motion picture. It starts: uhhh oh yeah it's starting, okay shit I gotta think, whaaaayo myo. There's a happy family of doughnuts living next door. You are squirrels. You, and your dumb as dick apartment-mate, that is. Fucking squirrels except they (you, that be: what it always be and foreva will won't) are just people on mushrooms that believe themselves to be squirrels. But it's, like, cool, because the doughnuts are real keen folk. They'll feed you anything, right? So you're always well-fed. But then you realize that it's all been an elaborate ruse to get into your heads and steal your lamp, so you get back at 'em by throwing a really fun party made of salad tables. The do'nuts become SUPER happy and then you eat their jelly and chives and 1 beer because that's really all those lousy snookems had in their fridge.

Whaddid ya think? It's a completely finished product, script, scenery, cast, donkey and all. Might be a few tweaks with who's the donkey's chef, but for the moist part (that is, the part with moistness), shit goin' right!!! Where YOU going?! 'Splain yourself, you dirty bassist. That's the bassist for everything. IT ALL COMES DOWN TO THE Bassist. funkify your basics. I'm a tree.

Simple Math for Kids! Also Animals.

I'm glad we've met again, so soon, my friends. Auspicious, even, it would seem. There has been recent development of a theory in the most scientific regions of the Earth (ya know, like Sweden or fucking whatever that shit is): all of humanity's/existence's efforts toward an objective order can be summarized through an equation. Just think of it like this, folky men of the folks valley. People who believe that people are obligated, or, at the very least, ought to want, to collectively act for the "good" and "equality" of others are theorizing existence as an equation that equates humanity with this idealized order. We here at Primo Kebabs:The Tastiest n Crumbliest!, Inc. posit that it ain't no equation, ya tomfool you. Rather, humanity and all of this existence is a term; just a fucking term. Shaddup, ya done. We are chaotic and entropic and that is the beauty of our human sentience! How lucky are you! And me! And this badger! Whoa, get that badger outta here, whoa nelly, whodatdoewat.
I can't even breathe though all this garbage, can you? its far too much fir one man ta handle let alone many men. and perhaps women, we allow those here. we accept all types of people here at Primo Kebabs: The Kick in the Pants Your Mama Ordered in '73 the movie that made me decide to do every drug ever! Look at it! Fuckin do it you fuckershitcockerspanielfailfuck! Wow that was harsh. Sorry about that folks, I can't help fellin how I feel thou. I'm just trippin balls, don't mind me.
And now that all that's over, to the jokes!
Why did the chicken cross the road?
Because the chicken was a fuckin not real thing that no one cares about and only exists in terms of this joke so the chicken does what I fuckin say it does. That damn stupid bitch.
Enough joke! i'm already fallin off my goddamned seat with laughter. It's fillin me up to the brim if you know what I mean. and if you don't, it's not doing that. because that's how that works in real life. and that's the bottom line cuz stoned and cold says so. bam, in the face, of all you and ya mathas.

Doobz n dogz,

Snoop Dog

A Poem - That's It.

Why don't dolphins fly?
They just
Fucking swim
Imagine the alternate dimensions
In which
Dolphins
You fuckers
Are flying fucking everywhere
Holy shitsicle
Grab my tits, poopsadosio this cuntcock is one sick piece of shitdouche
No my Jesus
Your Jesus
Get it off ah shit whoa
Who in the
Get

- Funny Man, the lone resident of Funnytown

Oy, The Sequel: How It Goes On

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Hams, Hams, and More Hams!

That's right folks, your eyes did not decisive you today! Get 'em while they're hot and fresh! Freshly killed, I mean. And they're hot cuz we're not refrigerating these motherfuckers so ya'll better hurry! Otherwise we're just gonna have a bunch of rotting, stinky hams all over the place growin mold and spreadin disease like nobody's business! And imagine the maggots! Seriously take a good minute to just think of what that'd be like! I'll wait. Yeah, it'd be like that but for every minute all the time. Gross. So if you're a kind decent human being, you'll buy all these porkers! $600 each. Minimum of a dozen per order. Also, you literally have to come get them because we're not gonna ship that shit. We're down on main street in whatever the closest town with a main street is to you. Just look for us on the left right by that awesome hat and sunglasses joint that you got that fly snapback at. You know the one with Alexander Hamilton beatboxing while Aaron Burr is dropping a sick ass rap. But as we all know, personal issues brought that collaboration to a swift and lead-filled end. C'est la vie. Anyway, if you get to the Starbucks, you've gone to far. You'll wanna just come around back; that's where the hams are. Oh and you might wanna bring a blanket or something cuz their still pretty bloody.

But enough about hams and ridiculous historical hip-hop duos; we have much more important ground to cover! For example, how long I can make this post without you (the reader) getting bored and leaving. I assume that happened somewhere around the maggots bit. But if you're still here, I might as well use up some more of your time! Also, there's this really unsightly plot of dirt about two miles up the road that somebody should probably go put something on top of. Maybe grass? I dunno, it doesn't matter! Just get that ground covered stat! 

(I threw that last line in because I knew you had no idea what the fuck that had to do with anything.) 

(You're welcome.) 

Now I would like to respond to some questions from fans. But I can't because we don't do that shit here. So instead, I'm gonna ask and answer my own questions! Ready for an introspective interview?!

Q: So tell me, me, what would you say is your biggest inspiration?

A: Well, as I know, I've always loved sea turtles. Those fuckers are awesome as shit! They just swim all over the world not giving any fucks with their little shells and flippers and their goofy bald heads. They're pretty god damn inspiring, man. Do I get me?

Q: I couldn't have said it better myself! Do I have any advice for the children, so that they to may dream?

A: Well sleep is usually the place to start, but once you get good at it, you can just whip it out whenever you want. You're gonna wanna practice as much as possible, so try to fall asleep whenever you can. That means in class, doing homework, reading, writing blogs, zzzzzzzzzzzzz, zzzz, zzzzzzzzzz, huh? oh right, with your friends; if you wanna get good, pretty much just wake up to eat and take a shit and maybe take a shower and go on the computer or some shit.

Q: I am so insightful! Last question, what would you say it's all about?

A: Instinctively the hokey pokey. But really, what else is it about? The hokey pokey is just a bunch of people who get together and do some dumb shit and just have fun with it. It's the silliest thing in the world (hyperbole), and it's also really fucking lame, but it doesn't matter as long as you want to do it. As long as you have fun and just let go of all the other bullshit and just be in the moment. So do the hokey pokey! Do the hokey pokey! Do the hokey pokey; that's what it's all about!

Q: Wrong answer! You fail this exam!

A: Awww shit! Was it "the Benjamins?" Those fuckin assholes! Why can't I join? Just because my name isn't Benjamin doesn't mean I'm not one at heart!

And that concludes a segment I like to call "Interview by a Madman."

Next time on primokebab:

Does the sun bathe?

How to use your crippling social awkwardness to your advantage!

and

Avoid a Wicked Wednesday: a guide to the week's worst day

With all the love that I possess,

I remain seated.

Me

Ask a question and then answer it. What is the meaning of life? (bum bum buuuuuuuuuuuuuum) and Describe the terror of the soft cheese as the cheese knife approacheth.

                What a touted question. People make this one thing into such a huge deal. It’s so important, people spend they’re whole life just trying to find out why they’re living it! Seems kinda silly to me, doncha think? Why would life have a meaning of its own? Life’s just chilling, man, it’s not driven by anything! There’s no guy anywhere running the Life Inc. ™ corporation and we’re all his employees out to spend our hard earned life on his wishes. I waited literally billions of years to get this one tiny little life and now I’m supposed to just hop along with whatever it means? Screw that! But thank Glob and Randy Newman that’s not how this shindig works. Life on its own doesn’t mean anything more than a book without a writer. It’s fuckin blank, man. I like to think of life as like a huge bowl and I at the meaning buffet just pickin out all the goodin’s like enjoying the incredibly short moment I get to have sentience (before I go back to being food for some of life’s least appetizing creatures!) instead of some of the crazier ones like giving all glory to the hypnotoad. I tried it once. Not as fun as you might expect, but a great group of people. We used to have knitting club on Thursday nights and gab about all juicy gossip of who gave how much glory and the hypnotoad’s need for more, but I digress. See the beauty of the meaning of life is you get to make it as you go along so worrying about what “the meaning of life is” is the meaning of life! Well can be. But it can be anything else! And as long as it doesn’t too harshly impact the other peeps on Earth’s face I’m totally cool wit dat! As for me, I’m just coastin through tryin to soak up all the great time and get the most outta life experientially and creatively. And to glorify the hypnotoad. In all his immense glory.

The soft cheese fears not the fast approaching knife, for the soft cheese has known its fate all along and thus has had much time to contemplate and accept its impending doom. The soft cheese, henceforth referred to as Gary, had lived a full life. He laughed with friends, enjoyed wine tastings, even went to the moon! Gary had seen all he wanted to see and done all he wanted to do. At his age, Gary was already approaching stage 3 mold and didn’t have much longer to live. In an act of selflessness and a testament to Gary’s love for others, he donated his own flesh to feed starving children all around the world. Gary has achieved the inner peace he had longed to reach as a younger wedge and, having completed his list of life goals written in the 4^th grade (ranging from eating ice cream for dinner to wrestling in a tag team match with Lou Ferrigno against the Nature Boy Ric Flair and Elisabeth the Queen of England), faced his death with the same determined smile he wore every day of his life. Gary was an inspiration to us all. 

What is something you believe to be true, despite a lack of evidence of a presence of evidence to the contrary?

I believe in the Lord of Dance

Dancing is the one bliss, no but's about it. There ain't no God, there ain't no science, there ain't shit if we can't move our bodies. Let me preamble this, though. I envision the entirety of existence as two conflicting (or, at least, dynamic) components: anti-entropy and entropy, anti-entropy embodying all that is living and moving and directed forward, and entropy embodying all that decays, those slowing forces of the universe. These become more apparent to me when I view everything as being made of the exact same particles that make everything else (call them atoms, whatever, I don't care. They're something you can't see, bozo; they could be lil' pieces of cheese for all we know). Stars form, then explode. But the pieces that they send off will eventually travel to form a blue planet far, far away, where someday they formulate an odd looking creature with two eyes, ears, arms and legs and for some reason it can't stop complaining about how long it just spent in the airplane terminal, and how they didn't even offer peanuts mid-flight, Jesus Christ! Sorry, that last bit is more for me than actually conveying my point. Which is, ahem, soon to come.

So these atoms permeate everything that exists and for some reason they change, they decay, they alter themselves into different atoms, but they're never really gone, right? There ain't no END to the fucks. Atoms just keep trucking along. But what about energy, eh? That must be it then. Energy's gotta be the God factor, right? The all-existent, always unseen property that permeates our existence? Well here's me point, buckaroo, King of the Shoes. Energy is the spark of mass (atoms, matter, cheese, you get it) to align itself in a way that is pleasurable. Now rope it back in, Slappy, and think of a human dancing. Is it the way we look when we dance that makes us do it with such ecstasy and fervor? Possibly, but for the most part we just look like morons. For me, it's the molecular rhythm, the infinitesimal beat that we can't even acknowledge, that makes us dance so much. It is the one bliss that nothing else in existence can provide. When I acknowledge my typing of this response as a function of atoms that became self-aware (and are now becoming self-aware of the fact that they are, indeed, self-aware; this is getting weird), thinking suddenly becomes a strenuous effort. It is genuinely hard to fire brainwaves the more cognizant I become of my mass-ness (cheese-ness), because it is that feeling, the awareness that I am physically just a lot of tiny bits stuck together in a suitable pattern, that makes me happiest and most at peace. Happy not in the "thank Cheese they gave us peanuts on this flight" sense, but in the "I'm thinking of absolutely nothing" sense. So go dance. Dance your bones until they resonate. Good vibrations are my religion, and happiness is my drug.

With boogie,

Hoi Polloi