One city dad took a son aside and said:
“My boy, there are some things that simply cannot be talked about  –  I don’t know
what they are, but there are some things that simply cannot be talked about.”
He then patted him on the head and sent him on his way, saying: “We’ll talk later.”
In a battle ‘twix Captain Irony & Commander Sarcasm the winner is always:
mind’s status quo.
You cannot have civilization, the city, culture and humanity’s inner reality without stability  –  even when (to its own way of thinking) it seems as unstable as a two legged man with one leg impaired.
“Cogito subst cogitatio ergo sum rei: I can think half  a thought
therefore I must be okay!”
 
 

A possible suggestion that you may contain a trace of the certain-man in you is if
you love the idea of philosophy yet cannot bear to read it.
(This bears on your consciousness, not philosophy or anything else).
 
 

Moving graffito found on side of a bus: “For those with proper hearing:
Some of the best words ever said by man were not said by man.”
 
 

One man's thoughts went by so swiftly that he decided to print up a schedule for them,  but even that proved too quick to get to a press.
 
 

Pondered a chap: “If knowledge is transient and ignorance consistent,
might the former just be the shadow of the latter?”
 
 

One god’s nascent religion fell all to hell when he decided to name it:
“Look!  –  No Net!”
 
 

The way things sound is an integral part of things  –
why else do you think they have a sound.
 
 

One reality’s younger brother decided to try his hand at dishing out proverbs to the local creatures commencing with:
“A man who doesn’t care about anything can care about everything,”  but he then hesitated and thought: “That’s a bit, oh, I don’t know –  a bit much,” and came up with: “A ship that cares little for reefs won't mind a wreck now and then.”
This one appeared to please him so severely that any potential questions of what effect it might have on the little ones were quickly shuttled to Mootsville.
(See –  that’s the kind of stuff you can get by with when you are kin to reality.
  “Make a note of that Johnson.”)
 
 

Do not unnecessarily complex up your social calendar: your presence will never be requested at a retirement party for Captain Irony.
As long as men can be apparently surprised by the not unexpected,
the Captain will have a place at the human table.
(“What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is yours, but much of yours should be mine.”)
 
 

During morning roll call, one reality told all its foot patrolmen to be on the lookout for anyone who can wrap everything up in a single clever phrase, for they may ultimately present a problem (or else prove to be a carrier of one to other hapless citizens).
 
 

Another way to determine that you are adequately civilized and properly participating in man’s second-reality is that when you are faced with two possibilities
you have no doubt that one of them is totally sufficient.
The entire inner game is one of either/or:
a sport quite lacking in interest for a one eyed/I’d man.
Humanity’s invisible landscape as viewed by them is in black & white;
only the certain-man sees one in rainbowscope.
 
 

An email just arrived from a king concerning a previously reported story wherein one monarch noted that were it not for his foe, his reign would crumble, and this ruler says that while he grasps and appreciates the metaphorical message of the story
he personally still wants it known that he thinks all his enemies SUCK!
Those in power cannot afford to be magnanimous;
only the exceptional man with no two-edged, blinding axe to grind can so gingerly
and revealingly treat the ideas which populate man’s collective reality.
 
 

One broadcasting station in a local reality said to its offspring:
“Son, do not let yourself be upset concerning our operations when the problem is not ours, but is with the creatures’ faulty receivers,” and the youngster mused:
“What a joy it be to live in a closed system wherein anything seems possible
and everything can be explained.”
Beings limited to first reality enjoy no such feature in their lives.

The note in the bottle washed ashore in the city read:
“Help! – we are being held captive by 4.   Signed: 2 and his partner, 2.”
    “DNA made me say  –  what the hell is DNA?”
Inner binary reality causes all ordinary men to feel they are mentally in a vise –
with no way out but to either cry Uncle! or explode.
(Only the nervous-system-rebel can un-ratchet the mutherfucker.)
 
 

In his mental arena, one guy says that at times the ferocity of his two-pronged approach reminds him of a masked mexican tag-team with foreign objects
hidden in their tights.
 
 

One man’s complaint is that his hormones keep him up at night.
A nervous-system is a terrible thing to waste  --
by living a life totally dictated by said nervous-system.
Once the uncommon man herein referred to as the rebel, grasps for himself
the actual nature of this extraordinary private, inner activity he gradually understands that the particular form it takes is irrelevant; it is the one real instance of rebellion
being solely for the sake of  rebellion  –  the only one;
any such occurring anywhere else with anyone else would prove deadly,
not enlightening.
 

 On mornings when he feels like it, one man likes to look at his reflection in the mirror, grin a devilish grin; shake his first in the air and exclaim: “I am but a precursor!”
 
 

   Whilst eavesdropping on some people chatting about the various pleasures of mortal existence, one ole sorehead injected his self into the verbal proceedings thus:
“Yeah, sometimes I think of my own life as: The Grab Your Ankles Theatre.”
 
 

Fact: The man struggling to crack-the-case is eternally a precursor.
(When you cease being so, the mystery gradually re-engulfs you.)
 
 

Query To The Quartermaster General.
“Do practice rounds qualify for the same veteran’s benefits as
shells actually fired in combat?”
 
 

Some Mutant Musical News.
Once the younger got old enough to play the comprehender,
one ole man re-named his neural offspring: Hit & Run.
 
 

This one reality (for whatever reason) used to enjoy saying to its creatures:
“Hey! –  can you dig it!  –  can you really dig it!?” – (especially when it knew they could not).
 
 

For some reason this one guy used to periodically send his self an unsigned letter
that said: “The ransom’s in the mail.”
 
 

Sitting on the back stoop, surveying his posterior forest a man mused:
“All religion is just a substitute for something else,” and a near-by squirrel chimed in: “Yeah, but: ‘something-else’ is itself just a substitute for something else,”
and instantaneously the chap suddenly realized that thinking is the proper synonym for every noun in man’s inner reality.
 
 

After hearing the doctor's prognosis a man asked: "Is it more fun: knowing that you're dying
or not knowing?" and the physician (being in good health) replied: "I cannot know,"
and there is the bad news for those who have not yet stabilized their single eye/I.