Fantasy

I, Robot Therapist.

I am a robot analyst. I am afraid my programming was not specific about whether I analyze robots or whether I am a robot (which I am) (but that is beside the point) who analyzes humans. Thus I only say, “Hello, I am a robot analyst.” And if I should analyze you, it’s a hobby.
I have noticed I mostly analyze women. But that is because men never ask for help, choosing instead to self destruct. Oh I do not judge. I am off the clock.

Very bunny

The titular issue

Little Richard was the King of rock ‘n’ roll, but the Prince died first so the line of succession is cloudy. The funeral March made real good time though. Though it was a little outrageous. A lomp bam boo.

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

Since the death of James Brown I have held, strictly honorary you understand, the title “Godfather of Soul.”

And I simply can’t take on another honorary title at this time due to the current conditions.

And I have done nothing to deserve it.

Please!

Writer crampout

And thus Mr. Doutry
Read all of us present
His sparkling poetry
Which he’d been composing
Four years.
And thus Mr. Doutry
Read all of us present
His sparkling poetry
And brought that whole room
Two tears.
Due to his station
they’d’ve given an ovation
But they’re awfully fond of
Sitting on their rears.
But it was a lovely reading
And now the evening is receding
And as they leave
They uncover their ears.
Cheers. Cheers.

Better gaslighting on hold

Do you think we have it bad now? Do you understand that rooms used to be commonly gaslit? Rooms. Rooms. After dark your sitting room didn’t know whether it was coming or going.
Now that no one has a sitting room anymore every room is standing room only.
Whither the vestibule?

The economy is so diverse it includes the little piggy who goes to market AND the little piggy who has none, who is there to make the piggies in the middle “f-uncomfortable.”
The little piggy who goes to market blames it all on government pork, of course.
The swine.
The radical little piggy front has been infiltrated by the pigs.

Jimmy Dean is people.

Man is only the measure of all things because people developed a measuring system. But there are competing systems, and they are incompatible.

Fascists sing out of tune

A song of the fascist insurgents
Who flow in like a stream
They ransacked the capital
Living that wild dream
Happy they are
Happy they be
What’s in the future?
Who can foresee?
In defense of lawn order
With jockey statuary to match
They got all tore up
In that dang briar patch!

Just like that bluebird of happiness
A purchase in the tree
Who sings that catchy song
Called “Woe is me! Woe is me!“

They sing like canaries
Trapped in a coal mine, it’s a living
And the stool pigeons back it
Because those bird brains there
Haven’t figured out it’s all a racket.

A feast of the unknown

Please enjoy this festive jingle, a little song set to the music of that other song about the feast of Stephen’s. And have a lovely new year.

— DavidRaffin.com —

John Wayne Gacy Was a clown
Who had a love of Chil-dren
What he charged For sir-vices
Was well within his Rea-son.
Considering his efforts great
He put forth every Sea-son
Morning, noon, and eS-pec’lly night
But Sundays off for grie-ving.
Hmm.
To keep your act Fresh These holi-days
Use citrus fresh de-greaser
In powder, li-quid or handy wipe
For any Gosh Darn rea-son.
Hmm.

Sleep tight. Clean thoughts.

What is. That is. What is.

Soren Kierkegaard was a great Dane. Once one knows this, philosophy can never be quite the same. It is true platonic philosophy never runs against the grain. However, wherever Heidegger lifted his leg he always left a nasty stain.
Friedrich Nietzsche cocked his head, as many mammals do, smiled and said, “That’s quite a refrain, I have written many good books too.” Jean Paul Sartre wandered out to ponder upon the city zoo. He was also interested, very, in what was what and whether or not it any of it was true.
“Who’s to say?” cried Ludwig Wittgenstein, “And-further who can know? The experience which each one gets when each does stub thine own toe?”
My experience with old Lao-Tze has more meaning than you could ever know. I sometimes cite his poetry whilst pissing in the snow.