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I recently received a letter that in part read:
"Dear Sir:
I specifically enjoyed one of your stories regarding the dog who came across a pile of horse droppings for the first time, and reverently crossed himself while remarking that surely 'god himself' had passed this way; after many months of pondering this parable and am now pleased to ask -- how might I raise the stakes of this story and make its meaning applicable on an intellectual level? "
signed, "Yours, Most Sincerely"
Dear Yours:
Then ‘I’ am most pleased to be able to say that I couldn't agree more.

 

 

"Safety first!" is the cry of ordinary City minds;
"Safety first, last and always!" is the cry of respected City minds,
and "Safety in numbers" is the cry of 'em all.

 

 

While they were just sitting around one day, the kid looked off toward one of the distances and said to the ole man, "The funny thing about Life, Pop, is that sometimes I'm happier than at others." and the elder slapped him on the back hard enough to stun a hippo and said, "Now you got it, Boy!"

 

 

If ordinary men knew how their intellect operated,
it would cease to operate ordinarily.

 

 

About the only way to ever really make good time on the Revolutionist Highway is to "floor-board" it, and pass yourself in the car ahead.

 

In the three hours immediately preceding his dropping dead, this one fellow called out, "Five-Ten,"several hundred times; after the burial someone said that maybe he was giving out the time; someone else suggested he was referring to his height; and yet another mused that perhaps that had at one time been his weight; and one of the grave diggers added that it certainly wasn't his I.Q., or else he wouldn't 'ave died so "all at once, and completely."

 

 

Don't bet on dead horses.

 

 

Your basic, sanforized, un-recapped Revolutionist has little local concern.

 

 

One ole guy, perhaps not a full blown sorehead, but at least with an "attitude," says that as best he can tell, "Ninety percent of all 'love poetry' was writ by guys who just couldn't call fuckin', ‘fuckin.’"
(It is, I'm sure, all of our fervent hope that we can find no possible application of this unseemly notion to our own everyday thought processes!)

 

 

If I may filch a phrase from the City's financial fandango,
I will note that the past is a "no-growth" industry.

 

 

A certain person wrote and said that after a meaningful length of time faithfully following and studying my ideas, that they were going to have to stop...seems, they said, they're getting too dangerously close to finding Life acceptable -- if not downright interesting.

 

 

Everything! Sooner or later.

 

 

This one feller sez, "Aw jeeze, you just can't win."
and Life sez -- "Got'cha! -- I said it first."

 
  J