Smug Convict

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A man was ordered to be killed
For several sins he did commit
His fate, it seemed was sealed
He was clothed in captive habit

The appointed morn had dawned
The crowd was thirsty for blood
Before the Prince, and the Priest
Before the hungry blade and God

The Priest prayed and asked him to tell
The Prince his dying wish
He asked for one last mug of ale
He was thirsty for one last swish

The brew was brought to him
But his hands were shaky with fear
More than once the brew spilled from the brim
His eyes were white with care

Down came the Prince from his seat
And said in a lofty way
No man shall behead this unfortunate beast
Until he drinks the last drop of ale

The man on hearing these words
Saw a kind opportunity
To dodge the vengeance of the sword
And escape and go scot free

He emptied the contents of his mug
Onto the hard baked earth
And sat with a smile as smug
As one who had escaped death

The Prince conferred with a few wise men
And saw that the man was free
From death of such unfriendly mien
Instead, they hung him from a tree

– brunus

50 Incredibly Easy Ways To Be A Totally Awesome Badass

Thought Catalog

Shutterstock / oneinchpunchShutterstock / oneinchpunch

1. Get a motorcycle. All badasses have motorcycles. If you’re shaking your head, thinking to yourself, that’s not true, I’m a badass, and I don’t have a motorcycle, you’re wrong. You’re not a badass. Go get a motorcycle.

2. When the motorcycle salesperson tries to sell you a motorcycle helmet, put up your hands and say, “No thanks.” This is actually pretty easy in one of those states where you’re not legally required to wear a helmet while riding a motorcycle, like Iowa, or Connecticut, and so just letting you know, you might actually wind up losing some badass points just by the fact that there are already lots of badasses already riding around without protection. But if you live in a state like New York, man, no helmet while riding a motorcycle? That’s against the law, which is seriously badass.

3. “I’m sorry…

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The Pinocchio Paradox

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I trust that most of is have heard of, if not read the children’s book written by Carlo Collodi. This tale has even been committed to the screen by many which include that great plagiarist [sic] Walt Disney. It is the tale of a wooden doll and his quest to become a real boy. His quest does not concern us, however, but his interesting honker. His nose grows in length whenever he is under stress or he tells a lie. This was a curse by the blue fairy due to his inclination to exhibit rather brattish and spoiled traits. Ergo, whenever he makes a statement which he knows to himself to be untrue, his nose elongates.
I believe that Kind Mr Collodi must have been trying to teach those little Ninos and Ninas in Italy at the time the detriment stress of lying and that is noble… yet he was unaware that he had fed idle, agile minds like mine a paradox to ponder to madness.
As per the picture above, if you read the fine print below, when he says a lie or something he knows is untrue, the nose will grow. Now, if he says to someone “my nose will now grow”, he knows this to be untrue as noses do not grow on their own (unless you were hexed by a very powerful blue witch) so he is lying. Therefore, after the statement, his nose will grow, thereby meaning that he told the truth. This then defeats the whole Pinocchio character, because his whole gig was the lying and nose-growing.
Now, where he tells the truth, accidentally, knowing it to be a lie, has he told a lie or the truth? He must have known that the nose will grow after he lies and he wilfully lied by saying it would grow, which it did, thereby meaning he told the truth, accidentally. If one tells a lie from his heart, that eventually turns out to be the truth, is it a lie or the truth?

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Picture this poser: A friend walks up to me telling me that he thinks he murdered his wife, because he woke up after a night of binge drinking and found her in his bed covered in blood and a knife in his hand. Acting as a good friend, I help him dispose of all evidence and call the police, trying to pin the crime on the creepy janitor. In the course of investigation, one smart ass police officer discovers the cover up plot and in so doing, professionally finds evidence that the janitor was the culprit all along. Now, the question is this: did we lie to the police, or did we just tell a delayed truth?

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Grumpy Cat Thinks This Is The Solution

So, if the wooden toy’s nose can grow from a delayed truth, then that means that pending when the statement is verified (by a series of controlled circumstances), it is not a lie, but simply a delayed truth… or isn’t it?
I do not really think that Mr Collodi thought of this groundbreaking philosophy while he was hammering and chiselling our beloved boy into shape, but we are sure glad he formed such an insightful character that has opened our eyes to “delayed truths”.

Thank you for reading.
Rhetor.

Say Some Words

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Say Some Words.
I was going to sit quietly by this fire and let the night pass by as I chewed on this bone that has been plugged in my heart for too long. Long enough to set in a nasty rot that has twisted all the workings of my human spirit. But then, the evil spirits that had plagued my conscience came to me in a trance induced by the coca leaves and betel nuts I had been chewing and said to me:
Say some words, Macbrowne.
I was going to be quiet, because they always say that a quiet man hardly ever does any wrong, but no… the evil spirits had to seek me out in this my place of refuge and pillage me with questions of how things came to be this way. As I observed their lips move, slithering tongues darting back and forth across reptilian lips, I felt they were urging me to do something. I cleared my head long enough to hear their invocation:
Say some words.
What words was I supposed to say? What could I speak of that would placate these demons of my past and make them vacate my memories and leave me in peaceful surcease? I honestly didn’t know, but I knew that whatever it was, I had to know it.
Say some words, Macbrowne.
In the voices of my ancestors, I begin. The dusty bones beneath the earth? No. I mean the indefatigable spirits that reside in the ionosphere and command the waves and the seas and the tides and the times. I speak as one of them, the undying, the ones who will exist till Chukwu decides to strip them of awesome power. All that transpires that had transpired did so in their names and their effects and in their names, I begin. From the highest of places, the sky, the eagle glides, viewing the deeds of man and his undying and chivalrous hatred for his brother. In his nature, he has revenge, malice and avarice to contend with, and as if that is not bad enough, he has death to deal with. She, the eagle, might not be so fortunate as to live long enough to see the just repercussion of man’s deeds, but she knows that after she perishes, falling to the earth in subsequent grace, we will soon follow suit.
Say some words.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot purge from my heart the insufferable guilt I feel upon the visit of these emissaries from the deepest crevasses [sic] of hell. They had come to me, like the people came to Job, to taunt him, and probably make him curse God. But I cannot curse God, for he is too elemental to humanity to be cursed by one single human, let alone one as unworthy as me. This leaves me with the disturbing poser: why were they here then?
Perhaps they had come to trigger some dormant madness within me that they knew I possesed but had not deigned to inform me about. If this is the case, then they are almost there, and they have almost succeeded. Within my medulla plays this solemn tune, and inside it, the fire is burning and a clan of three headed demons dance and revel in glee, engaged in orgies of the greatest perversion. Not that I mind, though. They keep me company, and they are my friends.
Say some words.
You might shrink back and wonder what kinds of words these are that I utter. To your reaction, I ask this: where were you during my period of mental incarceration? What were you doing during the gradual spiral downward that I was on the last spot on your “importance” list? I was asked to say some words, and that is what I am doing. How I wish a priest would appear out of the impending gloom and put an end to all of this with his jar of holy water and censer of incense. This is not my wish, though, for it belongs to you.
This is proof enough that a mad man should not be allowed to speak to humans, for the music in his words would be assumed to be insanity to the sane human ear, for they know not that it is the lyrics of the dance of the gods and the poison that eats away the normalcy of the human spirit.
Look at me, in all honesty and laugh, for that is what I intend to inspire… Mirth. Even in these difficult times, he who inspires mirth is a god, and a god indeed. In the names of my undying ancestors, I have managed to defeat these spirits by saying a bundle of words of no import at all, and with this, I have lulled them to sleep… and away I shall, till they find me again, sitting by the fire chewing coca leaves and betel nuts and implore me to say some more words… and I will.

~Bruno “Rhetor” Ozymandias

King In Sparta

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Tell the King in Sparta
We who do not sleep greet him
And his laws, we keep

Listen, my friends
Brothers… countrymen…
Listen deep down
Beyond the babble of life
The hassle of existence
The haggle of breath
Listen down
Listen to the summons
The tom toms of war
The bugles of battle
Listen to what music they make
Listen to rhythm of marching feet
Listen to the thuds, grunts
The heavy jingle of manacled shins
As we are slaves to this machine

Tell the King in Sparta
That we do not sleep

Like fabled Macbeth
We slew sleep
We slew our own Banquo
But we do not fear his ghost
We welcome him
To a place at our table
To feast among us
Underneath the unsheathed blade
Threatening to fall
On Damocles
Threatening to hew us asunder
Threatening to sever the bond
Between brother and brother
And sister, and mother…and Father
And enemies!

Tell the King in Sparta
We who do not sleep greet him
And his laws, we keep

We sent emissaries into great Sparta
Sparta of the blood mud
We sent emissaries
Carrying blade and shield
And bomb and missile
We sent emissaries
Deep into Sparta of the blood mud
Bearing gifts
No more hospitality than was shown
To us who do not sleep
Our wives have wept
For the King in Sparta
Our children have bled
For Sparta of the crimson eye
Our muscles have strained
For the poison
That we have been fed
That we had worshipped
That we have fed

Tell the King in Sparta
That we who do not sleep greet him

Aye, we greet our lord
King in Sparta
We greet his great right hand
We greet his true left arm
We greet his hordes
Of merciless infantrymen
We greet the fearsome bows
Of his sure archers
We greet the powerful backs
Of his valiant steeds
Bred on the grass
Of Olympus herself
We greet his spear, his shield
His sword, his buckle
We greet the King in Sparta
For this is the Great King

Tell the King
His laws, we keep

Ride, Rider, Ride!
Bear the news for our children
Bear these greetings for those
Who murdered Banquo
Those who sold sleep
For gold
Those who sold sleep
For peace of mind
Those who sold sleep
For nothing
The skill of a man
Cannot defy how he is created
Bear this greeting
To Sparta
Tell the King
That now, we must sleep
For now
We who do not sleep
We who keep his laws
We who fear his greatness
We exist no longer

Ask Me Anything

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Ask me anything.
Any question that bothers your mind or your heart. Ask me anything because I can answer any question or poser you may decide to face me with. You may ask me when the Universe began or when the Earth was formed. You can ask me when the first people got here and if we are the product of selective evolution. You may also ask me the age of the mountain or the depth of the deepest sea.
Yes, indeed. You may ask me if there is life on Mars or if Venus is capable of supporting human life. You may ask me if Neil Armstrong really made it to the moon or if the moon landing was faked. You may throw posers at me about the fabric of the Universe and the mechanics of space and time.

You may even ask me if we were created by a benevolent God or if He put us down here for some kind of sport. You may ask me if He has a Son or a Spirit and is really in control of all our daily travails. You may ask me why and when we die, requesting diagrams and illustrations of the events that occur post-mortem. Yes… You may ask me that.

You may ask me why life socks so much sometimes. You may question me why a baby is born with cancer and a murderer lives past seventy. You may ask me why the sun only seems to shine on the honest, and the dishonest are always shaded by huge parasols bought with filthy money. You can ask me why we are ferried off into institutions to learn how to be human and forget that the best way to learn that is simply be human.

You can ask me anything, my friends… anything at all. You can ask me why I am so derisive of life, ignoring all its attempts to simply “live”. You can ask me why even though I have it here so much, I don’t just move on and forget all about this. You can write down your questions, such as why I wake up every morning with a sneer on my face and how I know that you wake up with a sneer on your face as well. Ask me why I rely on social media to keep in touch yet cannot say a word to you even if we are locked in the same room with no provisions and ate forced to share bedding. Ask me Anything, folks… anything indeed!

Ask me why I beg you for your posers. Ask me why I have this sickening fetishism for attention. Ask me why I cannot just exist on my own and wrestle my own demons or try to win them over to my side with treats of chocolate cake and ice cream (demons love those, BTW). Ask me why I cannot just lie on my bed, and be who I was meant to be, a man, born of a woman, in this charade called life. You can ask me anything.

And when you do ask, I will pop this last cyanide pill I saved from the Holocaust, drink it down with some schweppes, look you dead in the eye and reply “I do not know”.

-Rhetor