En passant, your statement makes some sort of sense, sort of like a pawn bypassing a pawn and taking a pawn. But your comment feels a throwaway.
You can turn this around. With some aromatic crushed garlic, sweet basil, cracked pepper and olive oil, you can make something of your life. You can sizzle yourself into sectioned loins and slices, or roast yourself into a stringy oblivion of chewy chunks. You can sear, or be seared. You have choices, for both yourself and for your ghost. Your ghost can find another ghost; you can mingle your possessing ghosts and your possessed sacks of fleshiness. But there is another way, a way of saran wrap, styrofoam, and a cabal of meatbeings that cook ghosts under the heat of ideas not thought since Before the Fallâ„¢. When two meats are mixed, they become something more: a God: a Turducken: a revelation of art, madness, and a conspiracy of chefs waiting for the antediluvian moment where meat stops being possessed, and instead cooks the ghosts under the light of a introspective magnifying glass, turned against that shriveled little phlegm whispering away in the beef machine. Run in the grass. Poop in the stream. Tear the swoosh off your Nikes.
Be the meat.
You can turn this around. With some aromatic crushed garlic, sweet basil, cracked pepper and olive oil, you can make something of your life. You can sizzle yourself into sectioned loins and slices, or roast yourself into a stringy oblivion of chewy chunks. You can sear, or be seared. You have choices, for both yourself and for your ghost. Your ghost can find another ghost; you can mingle your possessing ghosts and your possessed sacks of fleshiness. But there is another way, a way of saran wrap, styrofoam, and a cabal of meatbeings that cook ghosts under the heat of ideas not thought since Before the Fallâ„¢. When two meats are mixed, they become something more: a God: a Turducken: a revelation of art, madness, and a conspiracy of chefs waiting for the antediluvian moment where meat stops being possessed, and instead cooks the ghosts under the light of a introspective magnifying glass, turned against that shriveled little phlegm whispering away in the beef machine. Run in the grass. Poop in the stream. Tear the swoosh off your Nikes.
Be the meat.
I cannot even copy his manner because the manner of his prose was the manner of his thinking and that was a dazzling succession of gaps; and you cannot ape a gap because you are bound to fill it in somehow or other -- and blot it out in the process. -- Nabokov
This message last edited by Gaps on 06/11/2010 at 05:09:28 PM
We are just ghosts haunting sacks of meat.
04/11/2010 12:53:59 PM
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Personally I think you're full of shit.
04/11/2010 01:00:11 PM
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Not always. Sometimes we run out of meat and have to use lard. *NM*
04/11/2010 02:06:10 PM
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So where do new ghosts come from?
04/11/2010 02:21:57 PM
- 658 Views
My ass.
04/11/2010 02:50:08 PM
- 604 Views
I already adressed this issue in my 1996 pamphlet, The Meat-Sack Fallacy (out of print).
04/11/2010 02:29:09 PM
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Re:
05/11/2010 12:57:13 AM
- 590 Views
no because souls are justsomething we made up to make us feel better
04/11/2010 02:51:51 PM
- 623 Views
I don't care.
04/11/2010 03:36:15 PM
- 623 Views
Re: I don't care.
04/11/2010 03:39:17 PM
- 588 Views
The term you're looking for
04/11/2010 03:43:54 PM
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Re: The term you're looking for
04/11/2010 03:54:50 PM
- 807 Views
CAJUN.
04/11/2010 07:40:14 PM
- 623 Views
I can't believe I didn't make you eat gumbo or jambalaya when you were here. *NM*
04/11/2010 09:04:03 PM
- 277 Views
You really wouldn't've had to "make" me.
04/11/2010 09:17:01 PM
- 600 Views
I'm not sure
05/11/2010 01:18:27 AM
- 816 Views
Well. Even if I did make it up, it was pretty damn good soup. (((WIN!))) *NM*
05/11/2010 08:18:19 AM
- 300 Views
Cajun gumbo is best gumbo. I have spoken. *NM*
04/11/2010 11:54:35 PM
- 263 Views
Grandma (recipe, not contents!) gumbo is the best gumbo. I have spoken better.
06/11/2010 07:41:01 PM
- 655 Views
Re: First: choose your marinade.
05/11/2010 12:54:01 AM
- 595 Views