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Unadulterated Fat
Now, many who know me know that I'm a thin guy. Ish, anyway.
disclaimer:
The saga of Mouseman may return next week. We can never be sure, though. We just seem to fail to inspire much fear or respect in the minds (and hearts) of our writers, so it's usually a matter of they'll get around to it when they get around to it.
Deadlines don't quite have the urgency you might expect something with 'dead' as it's"[1] root to have.
Or you may expect something with 'dead' as it's[2] root to have not much urgency at all, as death is supposed to be a sort of laid back (sometimes literally) state in which nothing much at all happens. After all, what're you rushing for now! Or why're you rushing towards death! Why'm I shouting!
It depends on your religious and/or philosophical take on the matter. Not the shouting, the death and the state thereof.
You might think that and/or religion/philosophy thing is a bit much. Literary license, you might say. Taking it to the max, you might be thinking. Past the max.
But you'd be surprised. I once knew this guy whose philosophical and religious takes on things were completely different. He was third or fourth day adventist, which was a religion largely made up of the younger siblings of people who became seventh day adventists; always competitive, some families, I tell you.
Anyway, he was third or fourth, I can't rightly remember, and I can't summon any specific things he did that would single out which one it was, but no matter, close enough for horsehoes.
Philosophically, he was a big Schopenhauer fan. Like, massive. If Schopenhauer was a hockey team he'd have season tickets, the hat, the jersey, a signed stick, hockey puck, and goalie mask. If Schopenhauer were Cats he'd still go and see it, he was that into Schopenhauer.
You may be a bit shy, now, to ask just how these two conflicted so mightily.
Well, loads of little ways, I mean.
For example, he believed in the baptism and all that good stuff that came with the third or fourth dayers, the sanctity of Sunday and everything, but you know what he did on Sundays?
he sat in his room and cried a lot. I mean a lot. So much so he'd almost miss the Schopenhauer ice hockey team game. Not that there was one, because Schopenhauer never got around to sponsoring a hockey team, but if there had been we sincerely doubted he'd be able to get himself out of his room, he was that depressed. Now that's a true Schopenhauerian for you.
Me? Me, I like hockey, so I'd probably go watch them, as well.
footnotes
[1] To all those concerned readers, yes, we're still on that damn crusade about the apostrophes. You've probably all heard it by now. The one about the possession and possessive grammatical rules with regards to apostrophes and inanimate objects, animals, and all that good sort of stuff. We're not going to get dragged into that today, no way, my friend. Not today. So leave it alone.
[2] The explanation that we gave for the first time we did it? You remember that one? Well, it stands for this second time, as well.
[3] aka, the footnote without a home.
California, for all the grief we were giving it a couple weeks ago, isn't so bad at all. I haven't worn shoes in about a week and a half! Woo! Here's to free[4] feet!
[4] Free as in liberated.
Not free as in beer is sticky. Which I found out one day, today (feet-sticky-beerness), in fact, while cleaning the kitchen of some spilled beer in the corner which had hitherto escaped notice. Or at least escaped notice in that I was able to ignore it. There comes a time, however, when it's impossible to not notice spilled beer. Usually just around the time someone else notices it and points it out to you.
So you sort of act surprised and say, "Right! I'm right on that! Amazing, did you spill that?" A couple of scoffs and a cocked eyebrow like you don't believe them and generally that's the last you have to answer on the whole spilled beer front, but man, can it be a couple of tense minutes, trying to get that one past.
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