One man believed that the way to live was to always say you were about to die; this he believed, but he didn’t know why. Another man had a paperweight he used; it seemed functional enough, although he did not understand the principle thereof. Still another chap wanted to write a treatise regarding how such affairs fitted into the overall scheme of mortal existence, but his fountain pen short-circuited on him and burnt down his house and desires.
The publisher’s desk felt a bit edgy supporting a manuscript entitled, “Help: My Brain Has Been Hit By A Shotgun Or Vice Versa.”
There was a certain gentleman who, whenever he would have a potentially significant thought, would soon follow it by remarking to himself, “Yes, but consider the possible ramifications, the ramifications,” and he seemed to have led a quite respectable life until on his death bed he asked the priest, “What the fuck does ‘ramification’ mean?”
No need to wait up; a man with a real name ain’t comin’ home.