F.A.Q. The Fruitcake Incident

Q. How do I get to my grandmother’s house?
A. Go over the river and through the woods.

Q. Which one? I always get my rivers mixed up.
A. Don’t worry. The horse knows the way.

Q. What horse?
A. The one who carries your sleigh.

Q. Why would a horse carry a sleigh? Wouldn’t he just pull it?
A. He would, were it not for the white and drifting snow. Ho!

Q. So…What if I don’t have a horse?
A. Why would you not have a horse?

Q. Um…
A. Because, most people have horses, you know.

Q. That’s not true.
A. All right. Many people have horses.

Q. How about some people have a horse and most people don’t.
A. Well, if you want to get snippy about it. But just out of curiosity: why don’t you have a horse?

Q. A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse. Look, why does everything in life always  come down to who has a horse and who doesn’t?                                        A. Well now, there’s a question for the ages. But not a frequently asked question, mind you. I’m not really qualified to saddle that one up. Perhaps you should try the UNFAQ desk over the hill and very far away.

Q. I mean, why not a…a rhinoceros?
A. You’d take a rhinoceros to Grandma’s house? We’ve already had somebody’s Grandma run over by a reindeer. I don’t think…

Q. And his name is Bob.
A. You’re saying you have a rhinoceros named Bob?

Q. Like in the song. On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a rhinoceros named Bob.
A. With the big horn and everything?

Q. No. This one comes with silver bells.
A. You’re making this up.

Q. I swear. The thing is, around this time of year you have to tickle his butt with a feather.
A. I shouldn’t ask this. But, why?

Q. To hear the bells on Bob’s tail ring.
A. You know, it’s not nice to fool with the FAQ man. Especially around Christmas

Q. Speaking of whom, here’s my real question: Is Santa Claus real?
A. (Whispering) Keep your voice down. Little kids might overhear and it would break their heart.

Q. Overhear what?
A. (Whispering) You know, about…

Q. I’m not a professional lip reader but did you just mime the words “There’s no Santa Claus?”

Q. You’re nodding your head, so I’ll take that as a yes. But just to be clear, it’s yes, there’s no Santa Claus, right?

Q. You’re shaking your head. So that’s not what you said?

Q. You’re nodding your head. So that is what you didn’t say?

Q. By the way, is that why you’re wearing a Santa Claus suit? And is that why there’s so many little kids in this line?

Q. Look, I don’t want to tell you how to run your Santa Claus gig, but you really ought to think about having two lines. One for Santa’s kids and one for serious adults with frequently asked questions.


Q. Did you just mime “There are two lines?                                                                     A.

Q. You’re miming again. This time it looks like you said “Get this fruitcake off my lap.” Why would anyone have a fruitcake on his lap?

Q. Oh. My bad. Does this mean coal in my stocking?

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, F.A.Q., Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

If you know what I mean

K-Mac bought a wrought iron clock with those old-fashioned, black serpentine hour and minute hands for our family room.  I think it’s important to note up front that I, the man in the relationship, was not consulted.

It is a big clock. Imagine yourself standing with your arms outstretched like a scarecrow. That big. Or an inebriated guy (not me) bragging about the length of his horizontal stabilizer. In other words, unbelievably huge. Had he seen it, Big Ben himself would have gone clock shit (following the Darwinian evolutionary progression from bat shit to ape shit to Tyrannosaurus Rex Ryan shit to your cheap plastic shit and so on and so forth shit.)

The first time I saw this mamoo of a clock, it hung timelessly from the wall above the couch. I say timelessly because it is battery operated, but the battery was an off-off-Broadway brand. How off? The clock went tick-tock-ti-ti-t-t. At  precisely 10 minutes to six, it went what scientists call dead.

I asked “How did you even get that thing up there?”

“It wasn’t heavy,” K-Mac said sayfully.

Upon closer inspection, I noted that the wrought iron was actually wrought plastic. The honking couch below it, however, was about as easy to move as a tipped over Jersey cow or a sunbathing Jersey governor.

“Don’t tell me you stood on our brand new couch to hang that?”

K-Mac gently noted that the couch was 17 years old.

“We just got this couch,” I whined. “In April.”

“Of 2000,” said K-Mac.

I groaned inwardly. Women always remember stuff like that.

Anyway, in my basement lair I’d stockpiled batteries of all sizes and shapes against dark moments when our battery-powered lives go stoppity. Because nothing is ever easy, I found no battery for clockus interruptus. For weeks it hung frozen at ten minutes to six (we lost track of whether it was a.m. or p.m.)

Finally, I committed the sacrilege of borrowing the batteries from my boyhood St. Anthony statue (his rosary beads light up within 3 feet of lost banjo picks, etc.) K-Mac and I removed our shoes and together performed a terrifying, bouncey-boingedy-hey-watch-yer-bodiddly dance on those still dangerously springy 17-year-old couch cushions.

Gingerly grasping the clock, grimacing, teetering, tottering, profanefully suggesting Get off my foot! then, Get off my back! then, teeth-grittingly, Blastthatfraddarack, we dinged our 49.5 year marriage, yes, but successfully transplanted St. Anthony’s fire* into that sumbitch.

Immediately, the big hand went around the little hand and it became five minutes to six and then six o’clock. Exhausted, we quietly re-shoed and returned to the time of our fradderacking lives.

Only four days later Daylight Savings time rudely invaded our bumbling pursuit of laughing gas. Although still ticking, our clock now stood a full 60 minutes behind the rest of the cosmos. At ten to six in our family room it was actually, sort of, ten to seven in the show-off, fast-laners house across the street.

We sighed the deep sigh of the time warped, cringing at the thought of reprising our gladiatorial dance of the boingedies. Like a voice crying from the wilderness/family room I loudly demanded why there was no home version of the NFL system where the referee simply announces “Please put 60 minutes back on the clock.”

It gets wrought ironically worse. For six months we lived an hour behind everyone. We weren’t proud, although we confused each other often with existential and geographical questions like “If it’s three o’clock in Buffalo, what time is it in Sioux Falls?” All of our guests those six months came late and left early, if you know what I mean. Because I don’t.

One morning, six months later, Day Light Savings time gave us back our stolen hour without further incident. Sometimes, the best prescription really is to do nothing, say nothing, and keep the Zoloft on automatic refill.

But then the sumbitch on the wall went tick-tock-ti-ti-t-t.

*Long ago, when St. Elmo carelessly lost his new Fire HD10, St. Anthony found it for him and a thankful Elmo gave him his old Fire7 with Alexa.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

My beautiful head

In the summertime (i.e. summertime, summertime, sum sum summertime), your trendier fake news publications often wheel out their squeaky cart of dust-covered free books sent by desperate, dust-covered fake publishers in hopes of making somebody’s — anybody’s — list of fake best-selling fake books to be read at the beach.

While the enormous canon of fake rules don’t specifically limit the reading of these books to beaches, there’s always that implied moral imperative not to read them anywhere else — such as on a plane (even if flying to, over or into a beach) or a train (even if this train is bound for glory, this train) or a Zamboni (even if Mr. Zamboni says it’s okay, which he won’t, because he’s very, very late.)

The type of beach also matters. I’m going to go out on a boogie board here and say that the word beach in beach-book jabber implies and actually demands a beach that is attached to an ocean and not a lake. A sea beach will do in a pinch, but you’d still want to avoid what Arlo Guthrie calls “beaches full of peaches who bring their ukes along.”

Given that my blog falls squarely into the round hole of trendy fake blogorithms, I hereby recommend the following fake books for summertime beach reading.

One caution: as I write this in late October, I am morally obliged (by the nun chorus that follows me around, singing the mortal sin blues in Gregorian Chant), to note that summertime has actually passed. Therefore, this is a fake sum sum summertime list of fake bestsellers for fake reading on non-fake beaches.

Granted, it will be considerably cooler at your ocean and sea beaches at this time of year. The bratwurst stands will be closed, all sharks will have been jumped and Ubered back to Mar-a-lago, and Gov. Christie will be lying somewhere else.

I’ve included the first few fake lines for each fake book because there’s no better way to judge a fake book than with a fake judge (and as we all know — the Supreme Court, notwithstanding or notwithsitting, but possibly withlying — there are very few or very many fake judges out there, depending on your definition of out there.)

The Bottle In Front of Me, a detective Johnny Boozer mystery
I don’t want to brag, but I’m not as dumb as I look. Which is how I knew the man with the hole in his forehead was dead and not merely napping alongside the road following an outpatient frontal lobotomy.

The Banjo Player’s Wife
Cindy awoke that morning to Foggy Mountain Breakdown being picked by three fingers two inches from her one good ear. When she turned and saw her husband playing his banjo, fully asleep, yet snoring in that high lonesome sound, she thanked God for the umpteenth time that she wasn’t the Horn of Gondor player’s wife.

The Overturned Turtle
Ed, the box turtle, longed for a tattoo on his belly. “Flip me over,” it would say. Upside down as he found himself yet again, Ed thought about moving forward. Ed thought more about moving forward. His little green feet began pawing the upside down air. It was one of his best moves. In fact, it was his only move. Then Ed saw a woman wearing a “World’s Best Gardener” apron heading his way. Quickly he tried to remember some of his better pick-up lines. And then he remembered. He didn’t do quickly. Not even semi.

The President’s Hair is Missing
When Biff Crackerdog, the White House chief of staff, walked into the Oval Office that morning, he could scarcely believe his ears. O’Toole, the secret service agent, was saying “When was the last time you saw your hair, Mr. President?”

The bald-headed man behind the president’s desk said “I never see my hair. It’s on top of my head.”

“Not at the moment, Mr. President,” smirked O’Toole.

“My beautiful head. So beautiful.”

“Was there anything unusual about it?” asked O’Toole.

“About my beautiful hair? Other than it’s beauty?”

“Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm your hair?”

The president adopted a thoughtful look. “Crackerdog,” he barked, “Get me a Pellegrino water.” Then, to agent O’Toole, he whispered “I can think of someone.”

“Uh, Mr. President,” said Crackerdog. “We’re all out of…”

“Obama!” shouted the president. “I knew I should have changed the locks.”

“And don’t forget the bagels,” said O’Toole, pantomiming a drum roll and cymbal clang, followed needlessly by a cry of “Sha-BOOM!”

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.

Posted in Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

Blotting out the sun

I know a guy named Al whose assigned duties include doing the dishes after dinner. (Stay with me, it gets better.) The other night, as usual, Al stacked plates in the dishwasher while ambidextrously whistling the Woody Woodpecker song. All at once, a profound thought jumped through the window, threw him up against the fridge, punched him in the gut and left him blowing tuneless air.

You can compare it to the gut punch that gave Henry Ford the brilliant idea to invent a glove compartment. Or the one that gave his trusted assistant Fred Carr the idea to build a 4-wheel, gas-powered vehicle around the glove compartment and then call it a car.*

At the moment, Al was having difficulty finding dishwasher space for the plates used in that night’s vegan stick surprise. The problem: Mrs. Al had already tossed in 11 plastic containers, mostly empty but each still a-wiggle with piquant eau de leftovers.

Eau de yes, including re-re-refried refried beans (technically, a weapon of mass disgustion); quinoa delight with so much delight it had sprouted polka dots; steamed trouser pie with crust made from Durham’s rock-hard water putty; and steel-cut oatmeal bogwort (an acquired taste that Al tried to acquire on eBay but was outbid by a biker gang seeking breakfast and tattoo removal.)

The containers gave Al’s olfactory sensibilities a beating, causing him bitter regret at donating his gas mask to the girl scouts’ gas mask drive. Then, up against the fridge,  Al realized that plastic containers were grabbing more and more of the really prime spots in America’s dishwashers.

Once upon a time, those spots belonged exclusively to dinnerware made from 100% American organic material such as clay or wood or melmac and cheese. In other words, honorable materials that wouldn’t kill you unless they were smashed over your head. But while plastic’s big selling point has always been its worthlessness as an assault weapon, it’s not without its own inherent lethal properties.

Plastic, as Al told friends (he scored a still-talked-about 76 in reform school chemistry) was invented by the third Polymer of Styrene. He hung out in the cellar of a dank and drear compound near his fairytale castle in the black forest region of Besphynol.

There, the Polymer (his friends called him Polly; so did his enemies) mixed hydrogen and carbon with politics, oil of dead-skunk-in-the-middle-of-the-road, and flubber. The ingredients were stirred, not shaken, then boiled until a thick, scary looking cloud billowed over Besphynol, blotting out the sun (quite harmless, unless inhaled).

The resulting goop was used to produce everything from dinner plates to nerf guns, to the sweat-inducing mattress covers so popular in no-tell motels — and even sweat-inducing presidential candidates with moral compasses of 100% plastic.

“All well and good,” said Al, “until plastic junk started crowding our dishwashers. Suddenly there’s no room for grandma’s porcelain gravy boat, or grandpa’s ceramic hoohah, or Uncle Ned’s cracked earthenware bong.”

Al, not usually the rebellious type, alarmed me when he pulled out a 5-string banjo and started to sing and plunk:

“I don’t care if it rains or freezes,
long as I got my plastic Jesus
ridin’ on the dashboard of my car…**

Oddly (or evenly) (Personally, I’d posit extreme ironicalness) I couldn’t help notice during his playing that Al’s head was made of plastic. That is, the head on his banjo was plastic. Not sure about the other.

“What, then, are we to do?” Al had pleaded pluperfectly, post-plunking. “It’s almost as if no one cares anymore about eating off plates made from good old dirt. Everything today is plastic. What’s next, plastic food?”

I had never seen Al so distraught, so I let the comment about plastic food pass. He’d find out soon enough.

*Ford talked Fred into calling it a “Ford Car With Handy Glove Compartment,” a name that proved too long for the patent form. It became known simply as a Ford. To avoid hard feelings, Ford gave Fred a free pair of gloves, provoking the inconsolable Carr to attempt to fit Ford’s head into the glove compartment. (Hence, the origin of the term “glove compartment head.”)

**Thanks to Ernie Marrs and to Coolhand Luke’s failure to communicate.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Keep the line moving

Q. Why are we here?
A. That depends on your we. Do you mean the ‘You and me we’ or the ‘We, the peeps’ we?

Q. Peeps? Those horrible yellow marshmallow chickens? What do they have to do with anything?
A. That depends on your anything. Do you mean any tangible thing or any intangible thing? Remember, sometimes anything can also mean everything. Tangible or not. Or, to be clear, intangible or not. As well. I do not kid.

Q. I’m very confused.
A. You’re probably just confused. Very is a cheap filler word. Like the sawdust they stuff into sawdust ice cream. If you really need to emphasize your confused state, try a word like Florida.

Q. You mean “I’m very Florida?”
A.  Remember to drop the very. Because, technically, you’re simply Florida. And you’re beginning to make sense.

Q. But I still don’t know why we’re here.
A. Maybe if you defined your ‘here’? Do you mean here, here? Or possibly here there? Or even here, there, everywhere-so-beware here?

Q. I mean, right here. On Mars.
A. Ooooh, sorry. Wrong planet. May I help the next person?

Q. Wait a minute. I meant Saturn.
A. You’re oh-for-two. Next please.

Q. Wait. What planet is this?
A. Step aside please. You’re blocking the next questioner.

Q. Yes, thank you. I’m next, but I was going to ask the same question.
A. Are you with Florida?

Q. No. I mean, we met briefly on Jupiter. But…
A. Next please. Let’s try to keep the line moving.

Q. Good morning. I couldn’t help hearing the last questioner.
A. Ditto.

Q. I haven’t heard anyone say ditto since I was a little girl growing up in Syracuse.
A. Which is where we are now. I mean, not exactly Syracuse, but here. On the planet earth.

Q. Yeah, there aren’t many places exactly like Syracuse.
A.  One of the indisputable proofs for the existence of God.

Q. So could you tell me, real quick: why are we here?
A. Hoo, boy. Here on this spot, or here on this planet?

Q. Neither. I mean here on this plane of existence.
A.  Hoo boy, yoy yoy. Are we talking about a real plane with wings and bald dopes who lean back in their seats? Or an invisible plane with invisible wings and dopes with invisible hair who lean back in their seats?

Q. Look, I’m having trouble figuring out life. What’s it all about? Why are we here? Where’s the nearest Beef Bowl? Am I Merlot or am I pink Zinfandel? Heavy stuff like that.
A. We try to limit people to one heavy question a year. Most people either ask about — or turn out to be — dumb bells.

Q. Maybe if I narrowed my parameters. Why am I here?
A. The last time I narrowed my parameters I had to take cod liver oil for a week.

Q. My doctor says I have existential angst.
A. Maybe you should stop eating eggs.

Q. No, I mean the eternal debate between existence and essence.
A. I also use an inhaler during sawdust season.

Q. I wonder. When you come right down to it, does any of this really matter?
A. I’m guessing that’s a big, fat negatory burger.

Q. I’m such a mess. I sometimes wonder where I really am. Am I even here?
A. Well, one thing’s for certain. You’re not on Mars.

Q. No, that was last week. The big Klingon convention.
A. Good gosh, I’m in very Florida. Gotta go grab my inhaler.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, F.A.Q. | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Caught up in the tines

Every day I drill deep into the world-wide web dot (www.) trying to fathom man’s aversion to sucking it up without whining whenever he stubs his sore toe or his sorrier life. Too often I find evidence of men not only whining but sucking up without any hint of an it.

Given my extensive research and colorful anecdotes about ingrown toenails, I am able to wildly – although not recklessly – generalize that, since the dawn of time, man’s failures to stand up to the various its of life, sans-a-whine, explains all of the world’s wars, the famines, the black deaths, the blue screens of death, and yes, the streaming of ukulele lessons.

The solution, menlys, is to change your lives and quit your whining right now. Admittedly, though, changing ingrained character traits of cowardly whining to substantive, heroic bombast is very hard. Put another way, hard very is bombast heroic, substantive to whining cowardly of traits character ingrained changing.

That’s because the inherent requirements of change, (i.e, to change) almost always require doing something. Take, for instance, changing your clothes. It’s one thing to say I think I’ll change my clothes this month. Until a voice says ‘Dude, you look fine. You smell okay. Who cares what people think of the way you look or smell?’

I mean, true dat, although sometimes the health department can cause trouble. Which then begs the double-barreled question — Why won’t you change your clothes? What is wrong with you?

But no matter how much they beg, those questions miss the point. And what is the point? Many have asked that question and heard nothing but the toilet running in the upstairs bathroom. (Before indoor plumbing, it was the sound of a hair dryer.)

Therefore, manlyonians, if you find change difficult, please read the following and ask yourself “Is this me?” (Meaning you and not me, which is why you shouldn’t ask the possibly confusing “Is this you?” Which could mean me and not you.) (Or maybe not.)

You have a flat tire. It has never been flat before, but now it needs changing. You get down on hands and knees on the side of the road in your cargo shorts with traffic whooshing by in a snowstorm. You pop the hubcap and you find that the lug nuts keeping the tire on the axle thingie are rusted-on. You start weeping-sobbing-moaning-screaming-kicking-railing against God-the-father, or God-your-father or the stupid cow on the other side of the cow pasture fence. His “Moooooo” sounds a lot like “Loooooser.” You start laughing hysterically, swearing you’ll teach that cow a lesson. You climb over the fence and fall face-first into cow flop. The cow comes over and sits on you until stuff comes out your nose. You are not seen again until spring when your body is caught up in the tines of a manure spreader.*

It doesn’t have to end that way. In the above example, for example, one small change could have saved you from the flop. To be sure, it’s a difficult change, some would say impossible — though others might say “How ‘bout them Cowboys.” Can anyone guess what change I’m talking about?

(Long pause). (Silence). (Multiple sounds of accusatory sniffing.)

Okay, dudes, as with most difficult man issues, this is all about your nuts. Not talking about your relatives, nor your (ahem) beer nuts. I’m talking of course about the nuts on top of your shoulders.

I’ve said it before, boys, and I’ll say it again: when the old lug nut gets rusty from non-use, then it may be time to call in a nutcracker. I would add ‘Think about it,’ but that would be irony, which is the mother of all rust.

*Adapted from Dickens in A Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of tines, it was the worst of tines.” Thanks, Chuck.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Out the wazoo

I think it’s time we confront the truth. We know very little about flounder.

Yeah, yeah, there are flounder experts among us (you know who you are) (obviously) who know tons of flounder stuff. Like your flounder catchers (not to be confused with Yogi Berra in the rye) who know the difference between a flounder and a flounder impersonator (imfishonator?)

Look, I’m talking about you and me. We know nothing about flounder and it doesn’t seem to bother us until one night the alleged good flounder we ate for dinner — breaded to the nines and slathered in lemon — comes swimming back up the main hatchway to cackle “I’m baaad!”

Unfortunately, bad doesn’t begin to describe the intense metaphishical experience that follows. It opens your eyes along with every other valve, pore, innie, outie or blowhole on the body electric.

An exaggeration? Okay, imagine that someone parks a 1982 Datsun 210 (5-speed) in your stomach. It’s towing a trailer full of loose and very hard to digest racquet ball balls. The blue ones. On leaving your stomach’s parking garage, the Datsun crashes through the toll gate without paying or even saying “Have a good one.”

The trailer comes loose at the intersection of the body’s internal and metaphorical Holland tunnel and the Canal Street subway stop. The Datsun takes the subway north to Columbus circle and changes for the museum of natural history where – long story, short — it crashes into a stuffed moose and all the stuffing comes out.

The trailer, meanwhile, overturns, sending thousands of blue balls bouncing through the Holland tunnel, rolling out the barrel, so to speak, into the Zuider Zee, (aka New Jersey, exit 14C). They surround and overturn the governor, Chris Christie, who selflessly alerts the citizenry with his final word: “Balls!

Or think of a packed church parking lot emptying out after a service. Everybody in such  a hurry to do God’s work. See them cutting off fellow churchgoers, jumping curbs, blazing new shortcuts through the wisteria,  turfing the adjacent graveyard, blithely flipping the bird at elderly volunteers directing traffic. Oh, yes. We’re talking myocardial infarctions out the wazoo.

Which, of course, reminds me of Kierkegaard. The nineteenth century Danish pastry chef was best known in his early years for the daring back-slash he inserted into the second letter of his first name (Søren) (I know. Really?). His life and pastry changed profloundly one night when a poorly vetted flounder with a rap sheet, came back up the down spout singing Lil Wayne’s “Something you forgot.”

Kierkegaard began shouting, raving, spewing (lots of spewing) that life was meaningless, absurd and gross. He kept up the rant long after he’d been hosed down, swearing off — and frequently at – fish. His raving gave rise to the term floundering, although today, his idolizing party poopers call his philosophy existentialism. Even so, while shooting marbles one day with the 10-year-old Nietzsche, Kierkegaard rambled on about regurgitationism, and “Revenge of the Flounder.”*

My concern about our societal floundering makes me ponder one of the great questions of life. Who invented the name flounder? Some legendary angler with a name like Tennessee “Buddy Boy” Flounder? Or was it a simple misspellling at the Lost and Flound department down at Bob’s Beer Rental?

Can you see it? A fisherman stops at Bob’s for a cold one. He drops a fish while staggering home. A stolen steamroller steams by and flattens it. Someone tosses it into the Flound box outside Bob’s. When Bob sees it he says “What the hell is this?”

Larry, his assistant, says “Looks like a…wait for it…a flounder. Get it? Flound-er? In the Flound box. Get it?”

Bob, not what you’d call a fun guy, did not get it. Larry – long story short – is now a bouncer at a racquetball ball factory (the blue ones).

*Nietzsche mentions this in his work “Also spake Zarathustra.” It should be noted–and in fact, it is being noted, so get off my back–that handwriting experts believe The Nietster (his mother’s pet name) wrote spanked. This makes some sense when one considers that Zarathustra was Kierkegaard’s pet name for himself and that the Nietster, in his seminal work “Stocks and Bondage,” describes paddling an elderly gentleman who had lost his marbles.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , | 3 Comments