Have you ever stood on your front porch of an evening after a trying life and wondered about existence? In other words, have you ever wondered if you really exist or if you exist only in somebody else’s dream? Or maybe you’re a prisoner in one of those snow globes, or even the hallucination of a newt? (Perhaps you’ve done this from your back porch because the front porch was crawling with newts?)

Have you ever taken doubts about your existence to the point where you find a pin (not a bowling pin and never a grenade pin) and jab it into your ample buttovia, reasoning that if you feel pain, it’s proof you’re alive and that you really exist. Which means you have to paint the damn porch and call a newt removal service as you were previously ordered to do by the high command.

But here is a key question. When you screamed in pain, were you, in even a small way, disappointed? Maybe you were hoping — in case you found out you didn’t exist anymore — to take the rest of the day off? And now, because you do exist, you’re maybe just a tad nervous about needing a tetanus shot? And if you do go in for a tetanus shot you’ll have to explain to the doc why you stuck a pin in your butt. And his/her laughter will ring in your ears long after they’ve fallen off in the coffin that you’ll need when you truly do cease to exist.

Now, if you did the pin thing and you didn’t feel anything, before you go jumping to conclusions, have you considered the possibility that you may have a condition know as bulletproof butt (aka BPB). Many sufferers of this rare condition don’t even know they have it because they have never been shot in the butt. Or maybe they have and it just made no impression on them at all. (Telltale signs are usually bullet holes in your pants, in which case you may want to have your hearing checked — although without going into the details as to why.)

BPB not only protects the butt from bullets, but from butt kickings, losing your ass in a poker game and even brass toilet seats in the middle of the Yukon. And yes, it protects against pricks with a pin, a roofing nail, a sheet-rock screw or even Excalibur (the sword, not the I.P.A.)

If BPB is not an issue or if you have recently suffered a humiliating tetanus shot, you might consider seeing a nonexistent therapist. The leading practitioner in this new field is a wealthy (so wealthy), stable genius whose success belies (pants on fire) his humble beginnings in a shit hole (i.e. a lovely shit hole, a very beautiful shit hole. A very very shit hole.)

Look, if you go too long without help, your fears of non-existence will only get sillier. For example, it’s not uncommon for non-existers to lose touch with their genius and/or species and slip into episodes of incognito burrito. Here, the daft bugger assumes the identity of an item of Mexican cuisine but disguises himself as an order of Kung Pao chicken with peanuts. No MSG.

Neuroses that go unchecked get worse. Negative vibes beget other negative vibes. Which beget negatory vibes. Which beget nugatory vibes. Which beget nugat or, what your pluperfect Latin speakers like Cicero and Caesar called nucatum, meaning nutty, as in the film “The Nutty Professor.” Which begat Jerry Lewis, now begone, begorra and bejaysus.

People who didn’t know what to make of Jerry Lewis’s existence in the first place, develop the false belief that if you shut your eyes really tight, existence ceases to exist until you open them. At which point, Ta Da! You’re back in the high life again! Unfortunately, as scientific studies have shown, this works on only three out of ten eye-squeezers. The rest face an uncertain future as defunct Republicans or prematurely ejaculating Democrats.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.