One out of Every One Person Will Die!

So the results from last week’s check-up are finally back and it turns out I’m going to die. (Not necessarily anytime soon, but it’s bound to happen eventually.) And thus ends my long futile bid for immortality. Now there is no need to worry, I’m not ill and the doctor assured me that I’m in normal physical condition for someone my age. But that’s precisely the problem. Since most blokes my age are mortal, being normal (i.e., just like them) means I must be mortal too. I realise this may seem like a trivial matter to many, but I’ve long had my fingers crossed that somehow the first law of thermodynamics didn’t apply to me. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I think I’m special or anything; it’s just that I happen to be severely allergic to dying.

Unsurprisingly, this has put me in a rather sour mood. I feel grumpy, hungry, sleepy…hell, I’m all seven dwarfs combined! Take it from me, there’s nothing that takes the taste out of peanut butter like coming face to face with one’s own mortality. And since I don’t believe in a hereafter, being dead would pretty much ruin my sex-life. (Then again, if we were judging from my sex-life, you would probably conclude that I’ve already crossed over into the great beyond.) But seriously, I don’t ask for much…all I want is the sweet sweet loving of a good woman and to live forever.

Marriage...In the Abstract

Now I have no problem with abstract entities such as numbers, goodness or God. In fact, as a professional philosopher I spend almost half of my time explaining to people why the first two exist and the last one doesn't. Moreover, some of my best friends are abstracts (like my psychic ex-girlfriend who broke up with me two months before we met). But when it comes to making practical life-changing decisions, mere abstracts have little place. For example, I've often heard single women talk about how much they want to get married. They don't have any specific candidate in mind, but they simply want to get married...in the abstract. There's just something about the concept of marriage, that makes them want to spend the rest of their lives trying to attain it (which, incidentally, is the same way some guys I know feel about vaginas). Of course, I should hasten to add, the desire to get married is certainly not limited to women. Why, King Solomon was a man and he pretty much holds the world record for number of marriages; I mean, the bloke had like seven hundred wives! (Can you imagine being the girl he dated and didn't marry!)

But I digress. The point I'm making is that given the high incidence of divorce, and the equally high amount of unhappy marriages, the desire to just get married (in the abstract) seems, at best, ill-advised, and at worse, down right masochistic. A much more prudent approach, in my not so humble opinion, would be to focus on developing wholesome, fulfilling relationships. And if one of those relationships should lead to marriage, then so be it. But if not, then at least you won't be one of those sad blokes trapped in a union they wish they could get out of. But simply deciding that you want to get married (in the abstract), when you haven't even learned how to have a successful relationship is a bit like deciding to jump out of a plane and then worrying about whether your parachute works. In short, it's putting the cart before the horse, the target behind the gun, the regret-filled hangover before the night of tequila shots and the ill-advised phone call to your ex.

But I know what you're thinking: Get off the bloody soapbox, mister. You're just another guy who would prefer not to commit and you're trying to justify your own fear of commitment by spouting a whole lot of high sounding BS. Well hello, professional philosopher here; spouting high sounding BS is what I do. And as for the allegations that I have commitment issues, I would have you know that I have joined a fear of intimacy support group (though I'm seriously considering dropping out because all the members are way too clingy). But that's really all besides the point. Some day, I hope to meet someone I can spend the rest of my life with. And if I did, marriage would seem like a good idea.  (The tax benefits alone would make it worth it, not to mention health insurance.) But “getting married” is not something one should ever do just for the sake of doing it.

¿Cinco de Mayo?

Cinco de Mayo: A day when Mexicans and Americans can come together in peace, harmony, and their mutual hatred of the French!

On second thought, forget the peace and harmony bit.

¡Viva Mexico!

Jesus' Match.com Profile

Tagline:
Hey Ladies, I’m the answer to your prayers…literally!

I am: Man Son of GodSeeking: WomanBetween ages: 19-23

About Me:First name:
Jesus

Last name:
Christ

Middle initial:
H.

Ethnicity:
Middle Eastern

Languages:
Aramaic, Hebrew, Elvish (hey, we imaginary critters need to stick together!)

Body type:
A few extra pounds (after the resurrection, it was pretty much all down hill)

Height:
5'4" (Napoleon complex? Ha! Try God complex!)

Religion:
Formerly Jewish (recently converted to Scientology)

Body art:
Piercings.

Exercise Exorcise habits:
3-4 demons per week (usually into a nearby herd of pigs)

Daily diet:
Loaves and fish

Drink:
Social drinker, mostly at weddings

Smoke:
The chronic (you didn't really think I was not stoned when I came up with all those awesome parables, did you?)

Interests:
Going for walks (on water!), showing off my totally ripped abs while hanging on crucifixes, and being thanked by gangsta-rappers at music awards.

Favourite Movies:
The Big Lebowski (No one fucks with the...you know the rest.)

Occupation:
Carpenter, the Alpha and Omega, part-time White-house advisor for President Bush

Living Situation:With roommates (St Peter, Moses, and my pet lama, Mr. Diddles)

Something you don’t know about me:
The ‘H’ in my name stands for ‘Henry’.

What I’m Looking For:

After my short stint in rehab, I’m finally off the painkillers and ready to settle down with that special someone. What am I looking for? Well, the last woman I dated turned out to be a prostitute (Nice try Ms. Magdalene, but just because my step-dad believed my mom's virgin pregnancy story doesn't mean I was going to fall for that shit!), so I wouldn’t say the bar is exactly high. I just want a woman who is confident, mature, independent, and open-minded sexually. Between answering thousands of prayers, managing my step-dad’s furniture store, and working alongside President Bush to make the world a full colour-value safer, I’m really quite busy. But I also know that all work and no play makes JC a dull deity. Consequently, I’m looking for someone fun and adventurous who could add a little spice to my life. And to Gabriel and the other playa-hating angels who said JC has no game, all I have to say is: yes, my milkshake is better than yours!

The Easter Bill

Remember that without capital punishment there would be no Easter. So this Easter, go to the ballet box and show your support for the new binding referendum for the reinstatement of crucifixion. Let's face it, lethal injections and the electric chair are for pussies. What we need is capital punishment with testicles!

Peter was crucified upside down for his lord and when the martyrs were burned at the stake, legend has it that they sang until their voices were no more. Sure, their songs were somewhat high pitched and along the lines of “oh Gawd, oh gawd make it stop!” But at least they sang, damit!

But take a look at the sorry state of capital punishment today. “Will you like to have a pedicure with that lethal injection?” Give me a break! Back in the day, criminals would often die just form scourging that served as the warm-up for the main event. And once the nailing began all you had to look forward to was hours, sometimes days, of insane amounts of pain, asphyxiation, dehydration, pulmonary embolism, and if you were really lucky, an ischemic stroke. Now that's the way a REAL MAN dies!

Let your nation's leaders know that you're tired of the girlie booster shot that people today call capital punishment. Vote yes on Referendum ER 33: Crucify Them!



Happy Easter Weekend!!

All About Longwickle's Friend, Hans Landsteiner (Part 2)

Stop: If you have not already read All About Edwin Longwickle's Friend, Hans Landsteiner (Part 1), you should do so before reading the present instalment. Failure to comply with these instructions may cause dizziness, vomiting, and impotence.

However, tragedy struck when Hans’s biological father dropped by for a surprise visit and was promptly accosted, covered in cheese and eaten by Han’s roommate. The unfortunate eating deeply affected Hans, who vowed from that day forward to fight in defence of vegetable rights.

Odd enough, it was also around this time that Hans developed an acute allergic reaction to cotton. His psychiatrist prescribed pills for his condition, but he could never seem to get them out of the bottle. This proved to be a great inconvenience, particularly since Hans's aunt Betty (on his father's side) was a cotton plant. Every time she came over for a visit, Hans would turn red and swell up like a turnip (and on more than one occasion witnesses say he actually became one).

Despite his difficult childhood and many handicaps, Hans was determined to succeed. In a memoir he wrote: “I’d literally kill for a Nobel Peace Prize!” When he later relocated to Britain, his life-long goal of becoming a Nobel Laureate seemed on the verge of being realised after he single-handedly arranged a peace accord between carrots and the Cheshire Vegetarian Society. However, things took a turn for the worse at the dinner celebrating the accord when all of the carrot delegates were rounded up, juiced and served as the evening beverage. This sparked the violent 1978 parsley protests that culminated in the gruesome Gourd Massacre of April 18th; a day on which, according to noted historian Dame Veronica Wedgwood, “carrot and pumpkin juice flowed through the London streets like water!”

Because of the catastrophic failure of his human and vegetable reconciliation efforts, Hans was passed over for the 1979 Nobel Peace Prize. Instead, the prize was ultimately awarded to an Albanian nun, who Hans described in his journal as “that pretentious little bitch, Teresa!” It wasn't until many years later, after inventing an animal-based vegetable alternative, that Hans came into his own. He was then promptly removed from his own and placed in someone else's.

All About Longwickle's Friend, Hans Landsteiner (Part 1)

No less fascinating than the life of Edwin Longwickle, was that of his best friend and colleague, Hans Landsteiner. Hans was born in the small town of Petting, Bavaria, and is generally believed to be the son of Hanna and Jonas Landsteiner. As a child, Hans was both a bed-wetter and sleep-walker; urinating in up to twelve different beds in a single night.

A local psychologist diagnosed his chronic bed-wetting as stemming from childhood trauma, no doubt suffered when he accidentally walked in on his mother having sex with a head of broccoli. Things only grew worse shortly thereafter when his mother announced at a family gathering that Jonas Landsteiner wasn’t Hans’s real father. Hans, who already faced the challenge of being half Jewish in an era plagued by anti-Semitism, was now forced to come to terms with being half vegetable as well.

The revelation shocked all in attendance, prompting Jonas's sickly mother to faint and his senile father to ask for a second helping of cake. Furious, Jonas kicked Hans and his mother out of their Fucking residence and they were forced to move in with Hanna’s herbaceous lover. Four years later, Hans was sent to a boarding school in Fucking, in Upper Austria (I swear, that's the name of the actual town, I'm not making this up!).  Thankfully, the transition from Petting to Fucking was a smooth one for Hans.  He majored in botany and international vegetable affairs, hoping to thereby regain touch with his lost family heritage. Hans also demonstrated an aptitude for languages and by the age of sixteen he was already conversant in seven, including Latin, Esperanto and Jamaican Creole. He was also elected president of his school's French club, whose weekly meetings consisted of reading the works of Madame de Lafayette, being smug and condescending, and surrendering to the German club.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Finding Your Purpose

You never know when a philosophical breakthrough will occur. For instance, this one came to me while I was sitting on the loo flipping through my handy second-hand copy of the Encyclopædia of Dangerous Sexual Positions. Then, in a sudden (and totally unrelated) burst of insight I became aware of the answer to a question that has haunted generations: ‘what is my purpose in life?’ This question has stumped seers, sages, and soothsayers (not to mention my parents) since time immemorial. Why all these great thinkers have sought to uncover the purpose of my life, I am not quite sure (but it may have something to do with my habit of aimlessly wondering around gift-shops without ever making a purchase). But whatever explanation lies behind the search, this much is clear: though the answer seems forever nearby, it continues to elude us, like a name we know but can’t recall. That is of course, until now.

But I’m not going to disclose the answer to the question ‘what is my purpose in life?’ here, because quite frankly it is none of your business. I will, however, offer you a recipe for finding the purpose of your own life. The answer can be summarised in two words: reverse engineering. Reverse engineering (RE) refers to the act of taking some unfamiliar device or piece of technology apart in order to figure out what it does and how it works (pretty much what Sony does every time Panasonic comes up with something new!) What I recommend is that you perform a little RE on yourself. Think of yourself like some new, unfamiliar piece of technology (though I would recommend against trying to stick batteries or power cables up any orifices). Instead, examine your penchants, passions and proficiencies (for example, I clearly have a thing for alliteration). Once you have identified what these are you should be able to infer what is your true purpose in life. It pretty much works like this: the fact that carburettors are good at mixing air and petrol (thereby facilitating combustion in your car’s engine) and bad at providing a home for a six-year-olds cute pet hamster (oops, sorry about that Muffy) tells you what carburettors are for. Likewise, figuring out what you enjoy and are good at (two things which hopefully go together) will tell you what you were made for—i.e., your raison d'être.

Now everyone knows about my secular outlook on life, but this advice applies even if you’re part of the god-fearing majority of the human species. In fact, if you’re a believer, it seems natural to believe that God would design you in such a way that you optimally fulfil the purpose for which you were made. (That is unless God is Bill Gates, in which case you’ll probably be slow, experience lots of annoying pop-ups and crash every five minutes!) The key to figuring out your purpose, then, would be to figure out what you’re good at, since what you are good at suggests what you are designed for (whether you believe your designer to be God, Bill Gates or a complex matrix of social, psychological and Darwinian forces). In sum, finding your purpose in life is all about opening yourself up, taking yourself apart and seeing what makes you tick. However, I only recommend doing this metaphorically (otherwise, things could get a bit messy).

Why My Face Hurts...

Lately, I’ve been feeling as anxious as a cat’s tail in a house full of rocking chairs. But the strange thing is that I’m not sure why. My therapist said that we philosophers tend to be very insecure. I suspect it may have something to do with how we are socialised. One of my colleagues said that his family has a longstanding tradition according to which the favourite son would become a doctor while the least favourite son would study philosophy. Can you imagine what growing up in such a home environment would do to one's self esteem? Fortunately my parents are equally proud and supportive of all their children. (Or at least that's what they told me the day my older brother graduated from medical school.)

Nevertheless, I still find myself with about as much confidence as a 40-year-old ex-nun on her wedding night. Perhaps that explains why I tend to be so indecisive. Just this morning Diane wanted to know if I would prefer eggs or pancakes, and I simply couldn’t make up my mind. Irritated, she complained if it would kill me to be decisive for once? I said maybe, but that I wasn’t sure. It was at that point that the frying pan accidentally slipped from her hand, flew across the room, and hit me in the face.

All About Edwin Longwickle (Part 3)

Stop: If you have not already read All About Edwin Longwickle (Part 2), you should do so before reading the present instalment. Failure to comply with these instructions may cause headaches, flatulence, and an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and doom. Doom!

Longwickle is perhaps best known for his attempt to use Hubble’s theory of an expanding universe to explain why it is so difficult to locate one’s car in a supermarket parking lot. But what really put Longwickle on the scientific map was his two hundred page opus in which he argued that strange quarks were not so much strange as they were misunderstood.

Unfortunately, these views rendered Longwickle persona non grata in the eyes of a myopic scientific community that had little tolerance for novel ideas. Estranged from the British scholarly establishment, Longwickle relocated across the pond, where he became an active member of American intellectual and political life. Quickly distinguishing himself as part of the Manhattan intelligencia, Longwickle contributed several articles to a high-brow cerebral quarterly dedicated to the post-modern neo-Marxist interpretation of the gestation of Chinese poodles.

Even Longwickle’s social life began to experience something of a renascence. After more than ten years living in sin with his own right hand, he decided it was finally time to do something decisive in his love-life…and so, on February 16th, 1963, he and his right hand were married. Unfortunately, their union proved to be anything but happy and just six months after the honeymoon, Longwickle’s right hand filed for divorce, citing emotional neglect and self-abuse.

Brokenhearted, Longwickle turned to drinking; regularly imbibing copious amounts of bottled spring water and unsweetened grapefruit juice. This apparently took quite a toll on his immune system; for shortly thereafter, he contracted a debilitating disease that left him unable to say the word ‘lobster’ without giggling. The end clearly in sight, Longwickle sought reconciliation with his estranged right hand; and though it had already remarried, the two eventually became close friends and remained such until Longwickle’s death five years later. At his funeral, Longwickle’s right hand declared through bitter sobs, “he was the best body a hand could ever ask for!”

THE END!

All About Edwin Longwickle (Part 2)

Stop: If you have not already read All About Edwin Longwickle (Part 1), you should do so before reading the present instalment. Failure to comply with these instructions may cause dizziness, vomiting, and impotence.

Longwickle always dreamed of becoming an astronomer, but lacked the financial means necessary to pay for his education. However, in an unexpected stroke of luck, Longwickle won a full tuition scholarship to Cambridge for his uncanny ability to chew gum, juggle three bowling balls, and dance the Macarena, all at once.

While at Cambridge, he befriended an Austrian by the name of Hans Landsteiner, who like Longwickle had a childhood full of the kind of hard knocks that gangsta rap lyrics are made of. One day, after his father left for work, young Hans walked in on his mother having sex with a head of broccoli. It was then that his mother divulged the awful truth that Mr. Landsteiner wasn’t his real father. Hans, who already had to deal with being half Jewish in an era plagued by anti-Semitism, was now forced to come to terms with being half vegetable as well.

Perhaps it was Hans Landsteiner’s own intimate acquaintance with being an outsider that initially drew him to the equally reviled Edwin Longwickle. Even after Longwickle was denied entrance into the Royal Society for his outlandish scientific views and his uncompromising stance against personal hygiene, Landsteiner remained the Robin to his Batman.

TO BE CONTINUED...

All About Edwin Longwickle (Part 1)

Little is known about the early life of the noted astronomer and scientific maverick, Edwin Longwickle. But this much is certain: Longwickle was a person who came from a long line of people. Originally named Benjamin Rupert Longwickle, after his grandmother, he eventually changed his first name to Edwin, in honour of his chief scientific inspiration, Edwin Hubble. When he was only four, Longwickle’s father died under mysterious circumstances shortly after being run over by a bus. A two-year investigation was conducted by local law-enforcement, but the exact cause of his father’s death remains unknown.

Widowed at the tender age of twenty three, Longwickle’s mother, Elizabeth Longwickle, was forced to raise young Edwin and his twelve siblings on her own (a task that remained quite difficult even after she donated six of the children to scientific research). However, from entries in her private diary it is now clear that Elizabeth Longwickle later came to regret her decision to give away four of her beloved children. On September 15th, 1948 she wrote: “Why did I give away six of my dear wee ones when I could have sold them all for a handsome profit?” Elizabeth Longwickle’s words were a harbinger of things to come, for only two months later she sold her remaining seven children (including Edwin) to the Circus Royale, which happened to be touring near their home in Manchester. Always the shrewd business woman, Longwickle’s mother then invested her entire life savings in a brand new pair of breasts, lost fifteen pounds, and married a wealthy banker from South Kensington.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Mike and Jamie: A Valentine's Day Lament

This post is about two people that I find so annoying that the very thought of them makes me want to pay someone a large sum of money to beat my head in with the nearest blunt object. Mike and Jamie (who happen to share the study cubicle right next to mine) are best friends, just short of having matching tattoos and BFF bracelets. But what makes me feel compelled to perform bodily harm on myself each time I hear their names is the fact that Jamie is positively in love with Mike. I realise I'm not making any sense so let me put things into perspective. So here is the crucial tid-bit you need to know about Jamie: She's HOT!! And I don't mean, oops, I burnt my finger on the toaster, hot. I mean janitor in chemistry lab accidentally mistakes liquid nitroglycerine for industrial cleaner and then, once he's finished mopping the floor, proceeds to light his cigarette, hot!

Anyway, like I said, Jamie is totally head over heals in love with Mike. In fact, she is regularly dropping hints that she would like to take things to the next level. For example, last week I was sitting in my cubicle minding my own business when I accidentally pressed my ears against the wall and overhead the following conversation in the adjacent cubicle:

JAMIE: Hey Mike. {giggles} You wouldn’t believe the silly prediction my horoscope made this morning. {more giggles} It said that I shouldn’t be afraid to cast aside my sexual inhibitions because the friend that currently fulfils my mental needs may be the ultimate fulfilment of my bodily needs as well! Can you believe that? {and then even more giggles}

MIKE: {In a somewhat distracted tone} Actually, there has never been any conclusive scientific evidence in support of astrology.

This is where I pause to hand all my male readers a box of tissue. I swear, I could kill this guy repeatedly until he dies to death! The poor bloke doesn't seem to have a clue! After being forced to listen to the aforementioned conversational equivalent to a crime against humanity (I'm sure there must be a Geneva convention against this sort of thing), I have drawn the conclusion that Mike is either gay, mentally deficient, or Canadian.

Anyway, this got me thinking: why does love always seem to come to those who don't know what to do with it? Meanwhile, those actively searching for love, at best, only end up with a broken heart or an uncomfortable skin rash on some embarrassing part of their anatomy. The world just isn't fair! In the words of someone wiser than I: “It's worse than dog eats dog...it's dog doesn't return other dog's phone calls!”

Hey, I'm not unreasonable. All I want is a woman with the body of a supermodel, the mind of a Mensa member, and whose favourite hobbies include cooking, cleaning and coitus. Oh yeah, and who also happens to have an insane amount of money and would be happy to pay off all my student loans. Now is that really too much to ask? Despite such modest demands, I nevertheless find myself enduring yet another loveless Valentine’s day, while Canadians everywhere squander the love fate has so lavished upon them. (Sigh.)

Happy Valentine's Day everybody (except if you’re Canadian, in which case: bite me!)

The Truth About Werewolves

Larry:
We have on our show tonight, Kevin P. Howard. Kevin is the grandson of the famous werewolf, Scott Howard, on whose life the movie Teen Wolf was loosely based. Kevin is an outspoken preternatural rights activist and founder of People Against the Defamation of Lycans. Welcome Kevin.

Werewolf:
Thanks Larry, I’m glad to be here.


Larry:
Now, unless I’m mistaken, you’re just one of the thousands of werewolves now living in the United States. Is that correct?

Werewolf:
Yes. But we prefer to be called Lycan-Americans.

Larry:
Oh, my apologies. So, you insist that werewol…Lycan-Americans are greatly misunderstood.

Werewolf:
That’s right Larry. Thanks to the negative portrayals of lycans by the media and news outlets, Hollywood horror-films, and the smear campaign led by vampire supremacists, we lycans have been receiving a bad rap for centuries! However, the stereotype of lycans as bloodthirsty beasts that engage in deviant criminal behaviours, such as howling at the full moon, going from town to town devouring people and overturning the neighbour’s trashcans late at night, is simply not accurate. The truth is, Lycan-Americans are no different from anyone else. [begins to scratch behind his ear with his toes]

Larry:
You mentioned vampire supremacists. Who are they?

Werewolf:
Well first let me be clear that most vampires are decent people. Sure they may enjoy the coppery taste of warm pig’s blood every now and then…but who doesn’t? However, there are a few vampires—underscore a few—that believe that the undead are the only preternatural creatures deserving of respect. We suspect that these so-called vampire supremacist have played a fundamental role in the negative press that lycans have received over the years.

Larry:
What about the sexual harassment lawsuit that was brought against you three months ago? I know the charges were eventually dropped…but I’m sure it must have been a very difficult time for you.

Werewolf:
[becoming visibly upset, almost to the point of tears] I have to be honest with you Larry, those allegations were more painful than a silver bullet through the heart! I mean, I have a wife and three cubs…you have no idea how much suffering that fiasco caused my family and I. Those charges were just another example of the type of ignorance I was referring to earlier.

Larry:
How so?

Werewolf:
You see, we lycans lack sweat glands…panting is the only way we can keep cool, and there is no need for me to remind you just how hot it was last summer. My co-worker, Mrs. Stevenson, mistook my panting for a lewd gesture. But I have nothing but the utmost respect for women and I would never deliberately engage in behaviour that would make a female co-worker uncomfortable or that could be interpreted as misogynistic.

Larry:
Well, having met you face to face it is hard for me to believe you would. [pats the werewolf on the shoulder] I must express how sorry I am that you and your family had to undergo such an awful experience…and all due to a simple misunderstanding! If there were one thing you could say to all our viewers tonight, what would it be?

Werewolf:
Simply put, that lycans are people too!

Larry:
I couldn’t ask for a more eloquent summary. Thank you for being here this evening Kevin.

Werewolf:
Thank you for having me Larry.

Nietzsche's Platform

God says he loves humankind, but over the last four hundred years more people have died from “acts of God” than from all the wars (and other acts of violence) perpetrated by human beings throughout history combined. God claims he is just, and yet he prescribes infinite punishment for a finite number of wrongs. (Whatever happened to punishment commensurate with the crime?) Isn’t it time we had a deity that was true to his word?

The time has come to take the next step in human evolution. The time has come to put aside the Son of Man and embrace the Superman! Vote Antichrist!

I am Nietzsche, and I approve this message.

(Paid for by The Society for a Better Deity)

Security Alert

Today, the St Andrews police (the real Scotland Yard?) reported that someone was rubbed by a gang of ruffians somewhere on campus. They therefore warned students to be extra careful when walking home late at night from the ‘library’ (which is one of the many Scottish words for ‘pub’).

Try as I may, I can’t bring myself to take their admonition seriously. Can you imagine leaving Harlem, New York only to be mugged on the mean streets of…Fife? How would I ever be able to look at my own reflection in the mirror knowing that I was held up by three men wearing plaid skirts?

But let me not make light of the affair, since gang violence of any stripe is always a serious matter—especially when kilts and bagpipes are involved. What’s worse, according to the police reports the entire ordeal took much longer than was necessary since halfway through the mugging the assailants had to break for tea, returning to finish up the crime a full twenty-five minutes later. This was of course a great inconvenience to the victim, who had to wait the entire time in the cold dark alleyway until the bandits returned. But at least one of the hoodlums was thoughtful enough to bring the muggee back a scone as a token of apology for making him wait.

Moving On Up...

I'm in the big times now ya'll! That's right, I've recently been featured on the internationally acclaimed Expat Interviews. You can now check out my interview, in which I infuse my usual cheerful, upbeat disposition into an engaging exchange about life in the Kingdom of Fife!

Disclaimer: The views expressed here are those of the interviewee, and do not necessarily represent, in whole or in part, those of Expat Interviews, Inc. and its subsidiaries. In fact, we're a bit embarrassed about the whole thing!

All Alone

As you may have already guessed, I got into philosophy primarily for the money and women. But why didn't someone warn me about just how solitary the life of a philosophy postgrad could be. I don't think I've felt this lonely since elementary school. Back then, my only companions were my two imaginary friends, Elma and Capt. Amazing. What's worse, they only played with each other.



But at least I still have my books. Ah, my books.

The Categorical Imperative of Shagging

Shag so that your shagging may always be taken as an end in itself and not merely as a means to an end. This penetrating truth (no pun intended) represents the Copernican Revolution in Coitus, and is rooted in the fact that unlike other creatures that engage in sex simply for reproduction, humans are capable of enjoying sex as an end in itself. But the Categorical Imperative of Shagging takes the form of an imperative because we often find ourselves using sex for purposes other than sex. For example, many of us use sex as a means of gaining love. But as the common saying goes, you cannot use sex to buy love—particularly given the present rate of inflation. Another common misuse of sex is as a means of punishing your partner. However, the bedroom is not the place to get even or to play the role of the victim or victimiser.

We all have a duty to enjoy sex; and that involves knowing what we want and asking for it. But sadly, many of us are so out of touch with our own bodies that we have little idea what would bring us genuine sexual fulfilment. Then there are those of us who are aware of what they want, but are afraid to ask for it. Such individuals fall into two categories:

First, there are those of us who are afraid to ask for what we want because we fear that our partner would not only refuse but that he or she may condemn or ridicule us for our desires. However, sexual fantasies are like religious convictions, they are perfectly fine to have so long as we don't try to force them on others. Moreover, it never hurts to share your sexual fantasies with your lover since the worse that can happen is that they'll say no (or perhaps send a chain email to all your friends and family telling them what a sick, twisted pervert you are!). But the risk is worth it when you consider the possibility that they may actually say yes and you'll finally be able to act out that one fantasy involving a pair of salad thongs, cooking oil and a box of kitty litter (don't be coy, you know the one I'm talking about!).

Second, there are those of us who refuse to ask for what we want in a passive-aggressive attempt to spite our partners. (Passive-Aggression 101: First assignment, don't tell your partner what you want and when you don't get it, resent him or her for not being able to read your mind. Bonus points allotted for manifesting your resentment in totally unrelated contexts, especially disputes related to television remotes, credit card purchases or toilet seats.) When asked what they want, the connoisseurs of passive-aggression often reply with pouted lips: "even if I told you, you wouldn't give it to me!" (You can just tell I've been there, can't you?) But the truth is that these self-pity-party purveyors often only fail to get what they want because they refuse to ask for it.

Other misuses of coition include using it as a means of manipulation and control, using it as a means of displaying ownership or possession and using it as a means of paying off one's burgeoning student loans after making the mistake of entering a humanities discipline that offers little promise of financial self-sufficiency. But what all these misuses of sex have in common is that they all involve taking sex as a means to some desiderated end. But if Kant was right about anything (though chances are, he wasn't) then it is that an action can only be considered 'good' when our interest lies in the action itself and not in its anticipated consequences. Only then are we truly acting from duty.

Doing your sexual duty means taking responsibility for your own sexual fulfilment. This admonition should not be taken as a standing invitation to become citizens of Wanktopia. (That's what the discipline of analytic philosophy is for!) Rather, it is an invitation to recognise that sexual gratification must be taken as an end in itself, and not as a means to some end. It is an invitation to recognise that you (as a sentient sexual creature) deserve to experience sexual fulfilment and should therefore have the balls (or ovaries) to ask for what you want. It is an invitation to recognise that your partner (as a sentient sexual creature) also deserves to experience sexual fulfilment and that you have a duty to do what you can to ensure that they do. In sum, it is only when we choose to enjoy sex for its own sake that we fulfil our sexual duty and realise our full potential as members of the Shagdom of ends!

Happy New Year!

Once again I am sending you New Years greetings from Britain's own third-world country, Scotland. (I’ve lived here long enough to get past the initial novelty inspired ‘ooh, ahhh’ phase, and I've finally settled into the calm cynicism that comes from living in any country for a lengthy period of time.) As many of you already know, at the beginning of each year I typically send out a New Years greeting. As always, I have a list of lessons I've learned from the year gone by, which I offer to you now free of charge (though generous donations are encouraged).

I've learned that when you’re in a foreign country it is always the little things that get you, like the missing ‘American Standard’ label on the toilet tank.

I've learned that when it comes to politics, the facts tends to exceed the American public's curiosity, and that while everyone loves a good Armageddon now and then, the rapture just isn't an exit strategy.

I've learned that after a breakup, most women expect from you at least two weeks of depression before you hook up with someone new, though they also consider going into counselling and lifelong celibacy nice gestures.

I've learned that chances are she's just not that into you when you're talking to her on the phone and she says she has to go because there’s a telemarketer on the other line.

I've learned that Christmas just isn't as Christmasy when you're away from your family. (Though I suppose it couldn't be worse than opening presents on Christmas morning two thousand years ago, at Jesus's house: “a pair of socks, thanks…you know I’m dying for your sins right?”)

I've learned that young people today have just as many problems as adults. For example, last week I was having a conversation with a group of high school students, and one girl was like, “I'm like so glad I got my period because I was like so not ready to like have Bobby's abortion”, and then this other girl was all, “that would like totally suck, because Bobby's like a total douche!” and I was all, “whatever!”

I've learned that you know you're getting old when you begin using expressions like 'young people today'.

Last, but not least, I've learned that it is always a good idea to keep your friends and loved ones close by, especially when you foresee needing to borrow money in the near future. It is for this reason that, this year, I aim to be the kind of friend that is always there when he needs you.

All the best for 2007!!

P.S.: All checks should be made out to the “Give Avery money because he's such a wonderful person foundation”. (Or, to translate for the benefit of my new high school friends, “like totally, likety like like bff imho brb lmao totally whatever!”)

Financial Woes

My financial situation has been growing exponentially worse. In fact, my last credit card bill was so big that I could’ve sworn that just before I opened it there was a drum roll. Diane thinks my monetary woes may have something to do with my gambling problem. I explained to her that I didn’t have a ‘problem’ since I could stop anytime I wanted. She didn’t believe me so I asked if she was willing to make a small wager. As if my economic problems weren’t bad enough, yesterday my therapist threatened that if I don’t pay him soon he’ll let me go mad.

Postpartum Depression: The Video Game!

Without doubt, the most coveted role-playing game presently on the market is ‘Perinatal Perils’ from PlayStation. You are Molly, a 25 year old suffering from schizoaffective disorder that has just given birth to twins. The object of the game is to steer Molly through 12 emotionally charged levels (each representing one month following parturition) in which you must cope with symptoms ranging from run-of-the-mil ‘baby blues’ and restlessness to full-blown postpartum psychosis and obsessive worrying about your children’s safety. In the fight against peripartum depression you wield several weapons, including Talk Therapy, Lithium and trying to take naps when the babies are napping. This game is rated M (Mature) for violence, excessive prescription drug use, and engendering feelings of guilt and utter worthlessness in the player.

Finding Your Purpose

What is my purpose in life? This question has stumped seers, sages, and soothsayers (not to mention my parents) since time immemorial. Why all these great thinkers have sought to uncover the purpose of my life, I am not quite sure (but it may have something to do with my habit of aimlessly wondering around gift-shops without ever making a purchase). But whatever explanation lies behind the search, this much is clear: though the answer seems forever nearby, it continues to elude us, like a name we know but can’t recall. That is of course, until now.

But I’m not going to disclose the answer to the question ‘what is my purpose in life?’ here, because quite frankly it is none of your business. I will, however, offer you a recipe for finding the purpose of your own life. The answer can be summarised in two words: reverse engineering. Reverse engineering (RE) refers to the act of taking some unfamiliar device or piece of technology apart in order to figure out what it does and how it works (pretty much what Sony does every time Panasonic comes up with something new!) What I recommend is that you perform a little RE on yourself. Think of yourself like some new, unfamiliar piece of technology (though I would recommend against trying to stick batteries or power cables up any orifices). Instead, examine your penchants, passions and proficiencies (for example, I clearly have a thing for alliteration). Once you have identified what these are you should be able to infer what is your true purpose in life. It pretty much works like this: the fact that carburettors are good at mixing air and petrol (thereby facilitating combustion in your car’s engine) and bad at providing a home for a six-year-olds cute pet hamster (oops, sorry about that Muffy) tells you what carburettors are for. Likewise, figuring out what you enjoy and are good at (two things which hopefully go together) will tell you what you were made for—i.e., your raison d'être.

Now everyone knows about my secular outlook on life, but this advice applies even if you’re part of the god-fearing majority of the human species. In fact, if you’re a believer, it seems natural to believe that God would design you in such a way that you optimally fulfil the purpose for which you were made. (That is unless God is Bill Gates, in which case you’ll probably be slow, experience lots of annoying pop-ups and crash every five minutes!) The key to figuring out your purpose, then, would be to figure out what you’re good at, since what you are good at suggests what you are designed for (whether you believe your designer to be God, Bill Gates or a complex matrix of social, psychological and Darwinian forces). In sum, finding your purpose in life is all about opening yourself up, taking yourself apart and seeing what makes you tick. However, I only recommend doing this metaphorically (otherwise, it could get a bit messy).

The Immoral Minority

It’s hard being the minority, especially since one often finds oneself outnumbered. This is no less true in the sphere of religion; and when it comes to the flock of God, atheists are clearly the black sheep. But I haven’t always been a member of the god-hating atheist minority. On the contrary, I was actually quite religious as a child. When I was only six years old I decided to enter the priesthood. Of course my parents assumed that it was just a childish phase I was going through, especially when I began holding mass for my Lego blocks and G.I. Joe action figures. But I approached my ministerial aspirations with the determination of a wine stain on a silk blouse. At once I implemented a strict spiritual dietary regimen consisting of the Old and New Testament scriptures, the writings of the church fathers and Veggie Tale videos. My bedroom wall boasted a signed pin-up poster of Mother Teresa and next to my closet stood a life-size cut-out of the pope. Each morning the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, I could be found at my desk, wrapped in earnest prayer, bible study and mediation. I became so well known for my piety that in my school yearbook I was voted most likely to move to the Midwest, found an ascension cult and die in a shootout during an FBI raid of the cult compound.

However, things took a turn for the worse when I began asking sceptical questions for which I could find no satisfactory answer. Questions like: if God is benevolent, why is there so much suffering in the world? Or, if we believe there must be a God because everything must have a cause, then who caused God? And most perplexing of all, how could a merciful God allow Madonna to put out another album? I grew disillusioned. Unable to find the answers I was looking for I turned to a life of debauchery. Soon I was experimenting with drugs, imbibing copious amounts of alcohol and waking up each morning next to a different woman. Then I turned seven and I decided that enough was enough. There must be some intellectually honest way of relating to the world, a way of living that does not involve telling yourself lies like there is a life after death and Jared really did lose all that weight by just eating Subway sandwiches.

It was then that I discovered atheism—a faithless belief system that emphasized personal responsibility, open rational inquiry and the eating of the raw flesh of Christian babies. (Of course I’m only kidding about the last bit; we atheists prefer our Christian babies steamed with asparagus in a light vinaigrette.) Ever since my conversion (or is that unconversion?) to atheism, I have grown to appreciate that the world really is as f*cked up as it appears. No more fanciful fairy tales about Baby Jesus, the Virgin Mary, Mel Gibson, or any of the other personages of Christian folklore. Now it was just nature red in tooth and claw (or sometimes French manicure, depending on who does your nails). Now, thanks to atheism, I have no problem admitting that life is unfair: that sometimes good people do suffer, sometimes wicked people do prosper and yes, video really did kill the radio star.

Scientists Discover Eating is Good for You!

LONDON SUNDAY TELEGRAPH

Zürich, CH—Swiss and German scientists have recently discovered that eating food is nutritionally beneficial. “Members of the scientific community have long assumed that eating is important for life” remarks Joseph Goldstein, winner of the 1985 Nobel Prize in physiology and medicine. “But no one has ever demonstrated experimentally that this is so—that is until now!”

The groundbreaking study, lead by biochemist Albert von Hohenheim and medical researcher Katherine Müller, took the form of an elaborate controlled experiment that utilised three sample groups, composed of twenty subjects each. The first group was provided with three balanced meals per day while the second group was provided with no meals and were carefully monitored to ensure they didn’t eat anything within the thirty-day duration of the experiment. Hohenheim and Müller were surprised to discover that while the members of the first group remained in good health, those belonging to the second group grew physically weaker, experienced progressive weight lose and regularly complained that they felt hungry.

In order to ensure that the difference observed between subjects in the first and second groups was nothing more than a fluke, the third group was given a regimen of placebo meals, composed of authentic-looking but nutritionally empty plastic fruits, ceramic bread and papier-mâché meatloaf. The two researchers were amazed to find that though subjects in the third group believed they were enjoying real food, they manifested the same symptoms as those given no food, but with the added side-effect that their faecal matter took on the consistency of brown silly-putty.

"The evidence is overwhelming", said Müller, chewing on a ham and cheese sandwich. "It's almost as if food is supposed to be eaten!" In fact, the researchers suspect that eating food is so essential that complete and prolonged abstinence from food may even be fatal, a medical condition that Hohenheim calls ‘starving’.

However, the so-called ‘food study’ is not without its naysayers. "The experimental evidence remains inconclusive," says Kun Huang of Ohio State University’s Department of Biomedical Informatics. "Sure there was an observed difference between those that ate food and those that didn't. But we haven't ruled out the possibility that there may be some other variable responsible for this difference which the researchers have failed to control for." Johann Heinrich, professor of pharmocological studies at Geneva University, also criticised the study; calling the claim that food is essential for life “unsubstantiated” and “alarmist handwaving”.

Despite some remaining opposition, most of the biomedical community has embraced Hohenheim and Müller’s findings. “I believe the ‘food study’ will go down in history as one of the great scientific triumphs of our age”, opines Goldstein. “These results are no less astonishing than the discovery that what goes up must come down or the invention of the nail clipper.”

Bolstered by the success of the food study, the two maverick researchers have now set out to prove experimentally that breathing is necessary for life. "Are we crazy?" Hohenheim asks with a mischievous grin. "Many of our collegues think so…but we sincerely believe it can be done!" Like the 'food study', the proposed ‘breathing study’ will also take the form of a controlled experiment in which subjects won’t be allowed to breath over a thirty-day period. Says Müller, “we can only wait in eager anticipation to see what surprises the upcoming ‘breathing study’ will yield”.

Why My Face Hurts...

Lately, I’ve been feeling as anxious as a cat’s tail in a house full of rocking chairs. But the strange thing is that I’m not sure why. My therapist said that we philosophers tend to be very insecure. I suspect it may have something to do with how we are socialised. One of my colleagues said that his family has a longstanding tradition according to which the favourite son would become a doctor while the least favourite son would study philosophy. Can you imagine what growing up in such a home environment would do to one's self esteem? Fortunately my parents are equally proud and supportive of all their children. (Or at least that's what they told me the day my older brother graduated from medical school.)

Nevertheless, I still find myself with about as much confidence as a 40-year-old ex-nun on her wedding night. Perhaps that explains why I tend to be so indecisive. Just this morning my girlfriend wanted to know if I would prefer eggs or pancakes, and I simply couldn’t make up my mind. Irritated, she complained if it would kill me to be decisive for once? I said maybe, but that I wasn’t sure. It was at that point that the frying pan accidentally slipped from her hand, flew across the room, and hit me in the face.

Superman: Illegal Alien?

BBC News

WASHINGTON, DC—The recent Whitehouse crackdown on illegal immigration has called attention to perhaps the most arrant illegal alien of them all: Superman! Fleeing his home planet of Krypton, the soi-disant ‘Man of Steel’ crash-landed somewhere in the heartlands of rural Kansas. However, as Senate Majority leader Bill Frist observed before the House on Wednesday, “Superman crossed our galactic borders without going through the proper legal channels. He was never issued a visa or green card and it is believed that he continues to reside on American soil without appropriate documentation. We consider this conduct anything but super!”

“Superman threatens the livelihood of local superheroes,” complains a livid Captain America. “He’s stronger, faster and tougher than everyone else, and now he’s putting us all out of work!” The Flash, who was recently relieved of his position in the Justice League after receiving a memo saying he had been rendered obsolete by the equally fast red-caped wonder, also protested the outsourcing of domestic crime-fighting responsibilities to the extraterrestrial. “Two days ago he took a bullet to the forehead and didn’t even flinch!” notes the disgruntled speedster. “How are we supposed to compete with that? Trust me, you just can’t get that kind of invulnerability from being bitten by a radio-active spider or exposure to gamma-ray radiation! It’s just not fair!”

But long time friend, Batman, insists that Superman only takes the jobs that other superheroes don’t want to do. “Did you see the X-men running to save the world from that Texas-sized asteroid that was threatening to destroy the planet three months ago?” remarked the cape crusader during a recent Larry King interview. “I think not! And you want to know why? Because they’re simply not up to the challenge! But Superman is always ready for that kind of thing; he’s there to take the big jobs that other superheroes shy away from.”

Both House Democrats and members of the Krypton Survivor’s Guild argue that Kal El (Superman’s Kryptonian name) is protected by the 2005 Comprehensive Immigration Reform Act introduced by Representative Sheila Jackson Lee. But Republican officials insist that Superman is insidiously undermining the foundations of American democracy.

“He says that he stands for truth, justice and the American way,” President Bush acknowledged at a press conference on Friday. “But if he really respected our way of life, he would also respect our national borders!” Moreover, the National Security Agency (NSA) has also been investigating rumours that Superman may even be using a false identity, a very common strategy employed by individuals residing in the country illegally. “Thus far, our investigation has failed to yield any leads”, admits Lt. General Keith Alexander, director of the NSA. “But we suspect that he may be using some sort of elaborate disguise, such as a mask, a prosthetic nose, or perhaps a particularly unsightly pair of black-rimmed glasses.”

Freewill Tastes Like Chicken!

Few philosophical puzzles have proven to be as intractable as the question: are we truly free? (Other equally perplexing quandaries include how did the universe begin, is space infinite, why do I get aroused whenever someone mentions the planet Uranus, and does this fact make me gay?) Immanuel Kant demonstrated that freewill is a necessary prerequisite for being a rational and morally virtuous individual, thereby proving conclusively that French women don’t have souls. Kant also complained that although our minds are free, we are still required to make an initial twenty-five percent down-payment on our bodies. But the question remains, could freewill be nothing more than our ignorance of the true causes of our thoughts and actions? Could we all just be automatons programmed to think that we are thinking, when in fact there actually aren’t any thoughts being thought? Now there’s something to think about! But I suppose that the real question on everyone’s mind is what does this guy have against French women anyway? Well, let me put it to you this way: if a woman is willing to allow the hair in her armpits to grow wild like a berry bush then there is no telling what other evils she’s capable of!