Because there are at least as many answers as there are minds to consider the poser.
Each entity seeks meaning even when they obtain an awareness of the dim chance of ever finding any.
So without the acceptance of finally having to ask "why", a mind will fall to the universal truth of defeat and depression. Only when the question has been posited can the mind examine the mystery that is its own existence.
Either that or one must devote years and years of "life" developing a distinctive and acceptable "silly walk"???
26 Sep 09
Originally posted by StarValleyWyrec'd
Because there are at least as many answers as there are minds to consider the poser.
Each entity seeks meaning even when they obtain an awareness of the dim chance of ever finding any.
So without the acceptance of finally having to ask "why", a mind will fall to the universal truth of defeat and depression. Only when the question has been posited ...[text shortened]... t devote years and years of "life" developing a distinctive and acceptable "silly walk"???
It's time to move on to "How?"
27 Sep 09
Originally posted by wolfgang59the only thing better than peas is more peas... except maybe lentils.
Starvalley has hit the screw on the bottom with that one; for years I worked on developing my silly walk until one day I asked "Why?". It was SO liberating! I remember celebrating with an extra large plate of peas.
28 Sep 09
3 edits
Originally posted by coquetteHow you say? Let me remonstrate as once upon a time happened at a galactic gathering of fops on mars.
rec'd
It's time to move on to "How?"
The exit was indeed obstructed by Cutty Throat and his merry headsmen, with Abdul in tow, glassy-eyed and arms outstretched, muttering something about brains. And Cutty Throat had spotted us!
One thing I will credit the blighter with: his sense of spectacle was perfect. "Ah, Mister Bondaid!" he cried, menacingly twirling the antichemwar vibrissae glued to his upper lip. "I suppose now you hope I'm going to tell you all my plans, then lock you in an inadequately secured cell so that you can escape? Fraid Not: I shall simply have you cut off shortly, chop-chop. My game's afoot, and none will stop it now, for the ineluctable dialectic of history is on my side!"
I'd struck a nerve, as I could see from the throbbing vein in his temple. "Bloated ticks languishing in the lap of luxury and complaining about your parties and fashions while millions slave to fuel your banquets! Bah." Suzy unwrapped her arm from my robe and covered her face, evidently to shield herself from the scoundrel's accusations. "When we strive to better ourselves, you turn your faces away and sneer, and when we bend our necks, you use us as beasts of burden!Well, I've had enough. It's time to return your stolen loot to the Masses!"
My jaw dropped. "Dash it all, man, you can't be serious! Are you telling me you're a...a... commie?"
Yes," he grated, his eyes aflame with vindictive glee, "the crisis of capitalism is finally at hand, at long last! It's about seven centuries and a Great Downsizing overdue, but it's time to bring about the dictatorship of the masses and the resurrection of the proletariat!
It was at this moment that my drunken, miniature mastadon Proby, attacked. I do not know what passed through the 80 percent of Proby's cranial capacity that serves as target acquisition and fire control, but he made his choice almost instantly and launched himself straight for where Cutty Throats crown jewels resided. Proboscideans are not usually noted for their glide ratio, but in the weak Martian gravity, Proby was positively areobatic, and he aimed straight for the villains tushie with grace and elegance and tusks.
"Tally-ho, old boy!" I shouted giving him the old-school best. Cutty Throats was done for and we retired back to castle Pookie for a well deserved apartif.
So as to "How"????
Always rely on your miniature pet Mastadon and luck.
Apologies to PG Woodhouse, Bertie and Jeeves and especially Charles Stross.
