Bathroom Monologue: This Lobe o’ Mine

"I've never tried to be logical. No, that's not true. I used to try very hard to be logical, and I was very good at it, but it was not very good at me. We had a bad break-up, and now we only cross paths when we date the same person. I wish that would stop happening."

Then Dr. Mento looked around, saw that no one was there, and primed the drill to penetrate the center of the earth. This would quiet those stupid voices.

Bathroom Monologue: Bathroom Couplet

With thy god, with thy country, ev’n with thy life,
But sir, ne’er trust a crusader with thy wife.

Bathroom Monologue:“The question for Democrats in 2008 is whether we want the first woman president or the first black president.” –Some pundit on CNN

First female president. First black president. First Latino president. First Asian-American president. First gay president. First transgender president. First incestual president. First hermaphroditic president. First cloned president (eight more years of Reagan?). First Native American president. First shaman president. First Mormon president. First Hindu president. First Scientologist president. First druidic president. First president who didn’t really exist, but was invented as part of a gag by some publicity agents that didn’t clue in the nation until the inauguration. First immigrant president. First extraterrestrial president. First robot president (Vote Dell – He’s Got Intel Inside). First president voted in purely because of her plans to help the country rather than her looks, sex, race, ethnicity or religion.

Bathroom Monologue: I’d make an awful lawyer

“Look at it this way: the jury won’t decide if you die or not. They’ll only decide if you die now. Mortality is the law. Morality? A game we play until the law shows up. Want a fishstick?”

Bathroom Monologue: Homeopathic Reasoning

I'm a different sort. I remember in high school when an English teacher asked, "What's the difference between a biography and an autobiography?"

The answer was obvious, and I gave it.

"An autobiography can never be complete."

It was not the answer he was looking for. He looked at me like a dog that's been asked to build a rocket ship.

As much as I try to sympathize with other people, I think this instance is a good example of why I’ll never be compatible with them. Another example, from age four, when I discovered that the circular peg was without edges and small enough such that it could fit through the square hole. For the rest of my life I saw no problem in putting it there. It gave the square peg some company in that pocket.

At age six I was auditioned around for kindergartens. I sat in the classroom of one while my mother and the teacher chatted; I built a skyscraper of blocks, taller than myself. The teacher said I might be an architect, just before I roared and knocked it over in grand Godzilla fashion.

Apparently I was one of the only kids that weren’t afraid to be seen with his parents. I’d hold their hands when we went everywhere, even in public and around my peers. On the playground I didn't like the feminist "mother ship," and so my pretend airplane or space fighter always returned to the "father ship." In game books, my little man always made it passed mazes the fastest, because I drew him walking around the outside and waiting by the exit rather than entering and traversing the labyrinth.

My earliest recollection of television is devising that Skeletor could kill He-Man if he'd only save up three or four of his apocalyptic plans and launch them at once, since the heroes barely overcame any individual plot. If only someone would recommend he spend a couple of episodes saving them up instead of blowing them every afternoon. (Though sometimes I have an earlier memory of thinking it was weird that Olympic volleyball and suicide bombings would be reported on the same news show, but it is insubstantial and may be a false memory. At best, it is a parenthetical memory, and I have written it as such.)

Back then I didn't notice this kind of alternative thinking from other kids, at least not applied to my areas of interest. But I think they had it in their own ways at one time or another, and they knew what this sort of thinking was about. There was a time when half of a classroom would immediately agree with my unorthodox babbling, or at least make the "Ohhhh" sound that so soothed the savage ego. Something happened along the way, happened to me and everyone else, which caused that "Ohhhh" to turn into a patronizing laugh, or maybe handful of grins. I don't know what happened. I'm not even sure if it happened to everyone else, but I hope it did. It would hurt beyond reason if it were just me.

Bathroom Monologues: Scavenger Hunt: Find examples of bigotry against the following groups

-Watchmakers
-Venusians
-Cube Earthers
-Seeing eye dogs
-Taco vendors
-Assistant producers
-Giant monsters
-Mailboxes
-Proctologists

Bathroom Monologue: Do Environmentalists Care About the Endangered Mermaid?

It's humorous that Atlanteans are so often depicted as advanced and loathing surface-dwellers. I guess it's more humorous that they're often depicted as alive, rather than crushed under rubble or drowning, but that's not the point. The point is that, in truth, the life of the Atlantean is most humble. Sure, back when the city sunk it was mystically and technologically advanced, but that was centuries ago. Most of the population died in the catastrophe, and those who became mermen were not particularly well-received by undersea society. Realize that human interaction with the oceans consisted largely of paddling over them or scooping out tasty critters with nets, and you'll come to understand how any even partially sentient creatures felt towards their new neighbors. The Squidkings were particularly catty at the welcome party. Atlanteans quickly became second-class citizens of the sea floor, doing hard manual labor. And they were humans, a species not exactly as equipped for strenuous sub-sea-level work as, say, sperm whales. Cheap manual labor that's bad at its job is never treated well. So when land-dwellers began diving and discovered Atlantis, they weren't treated with disdain, nor did they have war declared on them. They were greeted as liberators. By polluting, whaling and fishing earth's waters to the brink of total extinction, they'd given serious aid to the insurgency. The mermen now believed they could actually take over the oceans. After all, extinction of dominant life forms worked out pretty well for mammals on land.

Bathroom Monologue: Ways to Torture Your Girlfriend, Or, When is Valentine's Day?

-Hide her keys and when she asks, tell her the last time you saw them the dog was carrying them in her mouth.
-Listen to the kind of music you like in unusual places, like your apartment or your car.
-Drive at a speed with which you're comfortable, even if she happens to be in the vehicle.
-Hang out with your friends until you're tired of them, rather than when you *have* to go.
-Only exercise when you want to. Eat what you like. Get into a shape that makes you comfortable, even if it's unattractive.
-Take her to the sports store and try on jerseys for two hours while she holds your beer.
-Take her out on a romantic dinner and ask for separate checks at the end.
-Stop trying after you squirt.
-Enjoy yourself. At anything. It doesn't matter.

Bathroom Monologue: "The world’s oldest profession…” –Anonymous, The Baltimore Sun

Second oldest. The first would be necessary to generate the goods or revenue that would inspire the Neanderthal lass (or gigolo) to provide sex. In fact, if the master of the older profession had so much of his (or her) stock that he/she was willing to trade for a little geisha action, then he/she was probably providing to other customers for more practical returns. These customers, in turn, would need to have professions of their own – tiger hunters, berry gatherers, some nutcase raising investments for something called “the wheel” – rendering the prostitute not only not the oldest or second oldest, but likely a latter-day recreational profession. Unless you count mates and whatnot, in which case, please explain to my wife why you just called her a whore. She’s on her period, so I’m certainly not doing it. I’ll be out gathering Mydol. Not sure how old the pharmacist profession is, but I sure am grateful it’s there.

Bathroom Monologue: Loving Pennies

“I find that the mingled scents of flesh, sweat and copper form a smell similar to the taste of blood. I do not like the taste of blood (well done, please), but I do like that smell. It helps me relax after long days. But so does the smell of oranges while they are peeled. I generally go with the oranges, to save people the disturbance of the explanation.” –Hung Lo

Bathroom Monologue: You might be in the mob if...

-you know the names of fifty different kinds of pasta, and a guy who can get them for you cheap, because he owes you a favor.
-you need a house with a view, and a steep drop.
-you've bought fish that actually came wrapped in newspaper.
-you've never seen The Godfather because, "I already know all the details."
-you don't find Robert DeNiro impressions funny in the least, mostly because they don't remind you of Robert DeNiro.
-rather than checking under the hood when you have engine trouble, you wonder if you've done anything bad lately.

Folks, I'll be out of town for the rest of the week, so this is the last Bathroom Monologue for a few days. I request any readers who actually give a crap about these monologues leave their own humorous conclusion to this mob sentence in the Comments feature for this post. It's an experiment... in love.

Bathroom Monologue: The Greatest Humorist

To Whom it May Concern,
Recently I was accused of being the greatest humorist alive, and this needs addressing. Firstly, "humorist" is a clumsy and ugly word. Secondly, I am not a humorist. I am a human being with a below average lifespan, and making jokes along the way is par for the course. There is nothing about being funny that makes me anything other than human, and anyone of the human condition who indulges in humor less than I do ought to be checked daily - for they may have been cured of the condition altogether.

Humor is part of life. We're made up of 60% water, after all, and if you bother to look up the etymology of "humor," you'll see it comes from "to become moist" or "the fluids or juices of an animal or plant." So firstly, even plants are humorous, and secondly, humor is a fundamental part of life. If you're 60% water, then 3/5's of your person had to get the joke just to get here. I sure hope you laughed on the way.

Humor is literally the moisture that keeps us alive. You can't cross a desert without a bottle of water, any more than I can't cross a desert without making fun of its poor real estate development. That's humorous life, my friends.

And if you're not a humorist? Then, oh dry-witted soul, you're probably part of the reason that the Sahara is spreading.

Sincerely,
Someone who has never been called so much as a "good humorist"

Bathroom Monologue: Ill-Advised

"I know I don't have cancer, and telling those people that I do is technically lying. I've got M.S. And maybe it's wrong to substitute one medical nightmare for another, but when I say I have M.S., people think I've got stock in the company that makes Windows. And when I explain that I've got a primary progressive case of multiple sclerosis, they think I've got a crooked spine. So unless I'm talking to someone who can prescribe morphine, I've got cancer. Even if people don't know what it is, they at least know it's bad and shut up about it, which is all we cripples can ask for."

Running Past the Airport Bathroom Monologue, or, As Punctuated as Punctual

“Why was the traffic so bad oh shit I'm late oh shit I'm late oh shit I'm late why do they play music in airports? I didn't come here for a fucking concert I can't hear the announcements! Oh shit I'm late do I turn left? Right? Left to Concourse B-C? I need Gate B-18 what the Hell is a "concourse?" Where at the gates? Left? You swear it's left? Thank you thank you oh shit I'm late oh God I'm late oh God I'm late does that count as taking God's name in vain? That's not fair getting to your plane on time shouldn't be a Goddamned vain cause! Oh God I'm late how did I sleep through my wake-up call? I bet the fucking hotel clerk didn't even make it I'll kill that -- B-72?!! Where the shit is B-18?!! B-70 B-68 B-66 Jesus, Mary and Darwin what the fuck is wrong with this place? B-56 B-54 gonna have an asthma attack B-48 B-46 what do you mean I have to be there 20 minutes before departure to get on? B-36 B-34 I can't breathe it's only ten minutes to take-off B-26 B-24 - A dead end?!! Who the fuck put this here?!! I need B-18! Right? You swear? No I didn't see the sign but God bless you and your ugly, screaming baby! I fucking hate this place I want out I want out they're not going to let me on B-18 B-18 it's B-almighty-18 oh goodness gracious thank creation itself... excuse me I know I'm late but here's my ticket and I only have a carry-on and... "DELAYED?" WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN "DELAYED?"

Bathroom Monologue: Things I'm not Necessarily Proud of, but will Probably do Again

-Yell at the pasta I'm cooking for sticking together because, "You're living in sin!"
-Make "mew" noises at hungry cats until they look like they don't know what I'm talking about and leave in frustration.
-Compare the mentally handicapped favorably to millionaire rappers.
-Lose my mother for twenty minutes in the grocery store when we only needed to pick up two items.
-Get offended on behalf of a religion I've never even thought of joining.
-Imagine how Hercules would have handled the Sermon on the Mount, how Jesus would have handled the Lernaean Hydra, and whether God or Zeus would have won the bet.
-Wash my hair with Strawberry Essence shampoo, use Tropical Explosion bodywash and a fruity deodorant, then go down to the juice bar and try to coax a vegan into cannibalism.

Bathroom Monologue: What Gets Onto These People?

At three years old she was playing in her mother's make-up. They gave her her own lipstick for her fourth birthday. She got a make up case and everything to go with it at six. She was tweezing her own eyebrows by 7 (mostly for show), and wearing nail polish and lip gloss to school every day by 8. At 11 she was depressed to need glasses, but thrilled to exchange them for contacts at 12 - she'd always wanted blue eyes. That same year she was devastated to need braces, becoming so depressed that her mom helped her dye her hair (blonde). She was dyeing it herself by 13. By 16 she went from shaving to waxing, and this newfound attention to her skin sent her on the pursuit of the perfect tan. By the end of high school she hit the tanning salon every week. It took a lot of cajoling, but she got breast implants as a graduation present (b-cups had been the bane of her existence). She picked up a few new tricks in college: hair extensions, crash dieting, and eventually, liposuction. When she was finally out on her own she got a collagen injection to give her the lips she'd always wanted, and perhaps to make her bastard ex- jealous. It didn't work, and she got depressed again. She got a nose job to make her feel like a new woman. It didn't work, and a few months of ice cream later she needed a tummy tuck along with the usual treatment. By that point artificial tans had damaged her skin so badly that she had to visit the spa twice a week, and abuse a host of oils and creams. After her car accident her knee was so badly damaged that the doctors built her a new one, out of titanium. Rehab went well, but her back problems worsened, and rather than have her artificial bust reduced, she went through therapy after therapy, and wound up with pins in her spine. Then in her ankles. Time got away from her in a haze of eyeliner and facelifts. It seemed no sooner had she bleached her teeth then she needed to replace a chipped one, and a short while later she needed dentures. And a prosthetic breast to replace the one cancer took. Every day of her last ten years she wore so much foundation and so many supportive undergarments that it took her three hours to get from bed to breakfast. Afterwards, the mortician was so lost that they had no other choice than a closed casket.

Bathroom Monologues: What Gets Into These People?

Faye Boswell is widely regarded as the greatest journalist of her generation. From her coverage of the greater and more entertainingly dubious messiahs, to her defiance of the Kyle Empire's sedition laws, to her quirky movie reviews, she has always been willing to risk herself for a story, be it a dictator or director that would come for her head afterward. Yet one must wonder how someone who weighs only ninety pounds and has no self-defense training (revealed on camera during her series on the National Archery Association) could have survived all her brushes with wyverns and angry fanatics. The truth lies in the dozen contracts on her life. After her first breakthrough story (exposing the anarchist ninja cult that was bent on toppling the stock market), she realized she would need protection. She contacted the dozen most successful and boisterous bounty hunters in the world, and in the most morally ambiguous case of attempted suicide in history, hired them to assassinate herself. However, they were not simply to jump her in the parking lot - they had to slay her on her 100th birthday. Should she die a stroke of the clock sooner, they would receive no payment - but if she was successfully assassinated on that date, each mercenary would receive 100,000 Deutsche Marx (TM) for every year she had been alive. So Faye Boswell's dirty dozen has spent the last thirty years saving her from the trouble she brought on herself, fending off trolls, testing her food for poison, and even giving her diet tips. They'll be damned if they don't collect, which means you'll have at least one story to look forward to on the evening news, at least for the next fifty-three years.

Bathroom Monologue: Weeding the Garden of American English

Speakers of English, I implore you to treat your language a little better than a truck stop bathroom. "For a fraction of the price" is meaningless, because 1/1 is a fraction. So is 2/1. It’s just rude to say something is "literally" happening when it isn't but you don't care because "literally" has become the oral equivalent of bolding text. And when people describe a politician's "meteoric rise," do they realize that meteors don't rise? They crash, at quite high velocity, sometimes killing almost everything on the planet. You don't rise like a meteor any more than you run like a corpse or thrive like compost. If you ever rise like a meteor, get it on film. You'll get into Ripley's for sure.

These miscarriages of the language are responsible for the third greatest number of unpublishable bathroom monologues (behind politics and action figures). The worst offense is "evolution." Evolution is a wonderful theory that is so obviously at least partially right that if it is false, well, then I wasted forty minutes a day for a week in high school that I could have spent being bored in the hallway. Evolution is the sometimes-chaotic change over a period of generations in the lines of living creatures, specifically manifesting through the alteration of gene sequences that produce heritable biological traits that generally provide some benefit to the organism’s chance or rate of reproduction. Cars in this country did not evolve. Teen fashion does not evolve. The HIV virus evolves. The menu at Starbucks does not evolve, nor does anyone who has ever ordered anything off of it.

Individual human beings do not evolve. Ever. You grew, you grew up, you matured, you learned, you adapted, you expanded, you gained experience, you changed, you aged, and possibly, once in a while, you became a better person. But you did not evolve. Evolution occurs across several generations. No matter what your psychologist tells you or how much you feel like a new person after a day at the spa, you didn't evolve. Stop using the word like that. I understand that you don't want to use "change" anymore, as you've known it since you were four and it's lost its buzz, but if you're really so bored with all the accurate words you could be using, then make up a new one. Latin and Greek roots aren't doing anything tonight. Give 'em a call. Fucking "bootylicious" and "d'oh" got into the dictionary. It's not that hard. But leave evolution out of it. It's busy enough, hopefully creating a dominant life form with a less retarded way of communicating than speech. Oh, and about "retarded..."

"The United States gave the world Ronald McDonald, Mickey Mouse and Napalm" –An artist whose name the BBC didn’t repeat during that report

"That's a little unfair. I like The Sorcerer's Apprentice as much as the next guy, but you could have at least bumped the fast-food clown for the polio vaccine. Putting things that way, we could say that Britain gave us Monty Python, Harry Potter and the concentration camp. Or that Germany gave us the Volkswagen Beetle, the MP3 and genocide. I know it's fashionable to define yourself by criticizing others, but the only redeeming thing about fashion is that it goes out of style, and anyone left wearing last year's design looks like an ass. I think France gave that to the world, along with ridiculously unhealthy food and worrying about your figure."

Bathroom Monologue: Re: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPIkYbVEH0E

Do you ever get the feeling that directors of TV commercials are actually short film directors that have fooled companies into financing, producing and distributing their short films? How is a riot connected to vodka? Stargazing to an SUV? These commercials tell a story or do something amusing in visual theatre for fifteen or thirty seconds, then throw a product logo up at the end. It's less a commercial, and more a miniature movie sponsored by Hershey's or Scion. I wonder how many of these product companies have caught on and are just looking for short film directors to sponsor.

( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPIkYbVEH0E )

Bathroom Monologue: Small Town Telekinetic

On weekdays he is a mechanic, and a darned impressive one considering he doesn't need a hydraulic lift. There isn't a lug nut he can't unscrew. Still, he's always falling behind schedule, so he unwinds by bowling every Friday and Saturday night. His game is never very good, but anybody in the alley who looks miserable has an exceptional game. These mystery champions are the people who complain to their friends or family that they didn't want to come anyway, or who get hissy after a few gutterballs. For these people, our weekday mechanic wiggles his telekinetic fingers, keeping their balls on track. He's learned how to play this game; no perfect scores, more spares than strikes, and there's nothing to make a wispy girl's night like a seven-ten split in the last frame. To him this amusing job is like putting training wheels on bikes, or throwing underhand at softball. It may be playing God, but he thinks it's more of a school play than Broadway.

Cult of ROH at insidepulse.com

Pulse Wrestling of insidepulse.com has brought me on to write Cult of ROH, a weekly column about the Ring of Honor pro wrestling promotion. It's no secret that watching pro wrestling is a hobby of mine, and ROH is one of my favorite parts in that hobby. My column will focus mostly on current events, reacting to the most recent stories in ROH, with some historical perspective (and probably a weekly request that people not go insane just because their favorite guy lost).

Thanks to Aaron Glazer and Matthew Michaels for bringing me on. Technically my first piece is up on the website already, as part of the parade of people supporting Ring of Honor as the best pro wrestling company of 2007. My first regular column should go live on Tuesday, with a new one every week thereafter. I should also have some DVD reviews up in the near future.

This will not interfere with the Bathroom Monologues. This is exactly the kind of situation that creates them; remember these babies began when I got up from work and immediately improvised a change of subject from whatever I had been working on. And according to Microsoft Word, I have about thirty more pages of Bathroom Monologues archived to post - and most of them have never been published online before.

Bathroom Monologue: Title: Leap Year

Pitch: February 29th. Every four years the ghost of Black History Month rises from the grave to kill 29 rich white kids. Paris Hilton will be advertised as the star, but will die in the opening credits. Possibly killed when her hair is caught in a cotton gin.

Running gag: pale Latino tries to convince the killer that he isn't white.

Bathroom Monologue: A Sentence is Never a Story

-No one ever thought that werewolves would make good skiers, but what other explanation was there for the missing pies?
-The medics laughed as they ran over the girl they were supposed to save.
-Thirteen people were trampled when the millionaire threw his diamonds into the fountain.
-Jimmy climbed through the window every time he came to see his brother at the hospital.
-What if God accidentally shed His grace on a pinecone instead of us?
-DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN
-The protestors broke his arm for tearing down their "VIOLENCE IS NEVER THE ANSWER" banner.
-In the end, it turned out the zombies just really, really missed us.
-Two jumpers climbed the same ledge on the same day, and were so embarrassed that they almost talked each other down, though when the cops approached them, the two asked for sandwiches instead of a ladder.

Notice: Flashshot Takes Three Bathroom Monologues

Flashshot has accepted "Who's Her Baby's Daddy?" "Too Late, Bill," and "Delectable Dolphins" as micro-stories of the day for three days in 2008. While we don't know when each will appear, you can check their website every day for a new short:
http://www.gwthomas.org/flashshotindex.htm

A "while shoveling two feet of ice-snow off my deck at midnight" Monologue

There are people across the street. At least three of them are drunk off their asses, yelling and playing in the parking lot of the 24/7 deli. Their voices must be much more disturbing to any sleepers tonight than my shoveling and heavy breathing. My back is killing me and asthma is coming on, while they busy themselves jumping on each other. Yet as soon as I feel the twinge of dislike for them that I feel for all drunks, it passes of its own accord. You see, those guys making idiots of themselves are having a blast tonight. But sometime today they had to shovel something like this. If not, they'll have to tomorrow. Or they'll have to pay someone to do it, and to get that money they'll work jobs that they probably won't like. Each of them has probably experienced something worse than what I have to do right now. Can they pay their electricity bills? Has one had a bad breakup? Has one of them lost a mother yet? All three will, unless they die young. Right now, this is their release. Even if they are annoying, I can't hate them for that. I can't hate them because I don't want to be hated when it's my turn to release. Thinking on them takes my mind off the work, the next best thing to making it pass faster.

Bathroom Monologue: Come All Ye Faithful, to Tuesday Night Karate

At the turn of the 21st century, a surprising percentage of Americans believed the apocalypse was near. Well, surprising to people who didn't believe the world was ending - to those people who did, I guess it was surprising that the percentage wasn't 100%. But none of the faithful knew exactly what to do about it. If they figured out how the end of the world was coming and interfered, it could go against God's plan. If they increased Church-going and prayer, God would probably figure out that they were patronizing Him. It was quite the conundrum. The Stooksten Cult (as it came to be called by people from out of town) read Revelations very carefully over a booze-free weekend and came up with the only sensible answer. Since the end of times would begin the war between the Seed of Jezebel and the Host of Heaven, the citizens of Stooksten should probably learn how to throw down. The pastor's son had seen a couple of Jean Claude Van Damme movies and insisted karate was the way to go. So the Stooksten Cult congregation took karate lessons every Tuesday (and every other Thursday), to become blackbelts in time for the call of Archangel Gabriel's war horn. Everyone got into it such that even Ms. Brown, the 72-year-old piano teacher, could break a wooden board (if somebody held it for her). Satisfied that unless the demons knew kung fu that they would serve their lord and savior well, the Stooksten Cult returned to business as usual, with the odd Interdenominational Karate Tournament every seventh Saturday, in preparation for Sunday mass. They may be called illogical or blasphemous, but you have to concede that they were really good at coping.

Bathroom Monologue: Best Something in a Something Else

-Best disguise in a prime time drama
-Best creation of a disguise in a prime time comedy
-Least disappointing overhyped revelation in a prime time drama
-Least annoying pet in an overly rerun sitcom
-Best giant monster attack during an inappropriate situation (all)
-Most creative rip-off of Shakespeare in a daytime soap opera
-The Train Going into a Tunnel Award: Best visual euphemism for sex
-Nostradumbass Award: Pundit who is most frequently wrong in his/her predictions on a 24/7 news network
-The SNL Alum Award: Actor on a sitcom or skit show who is somewhat funny here, but will be intolerable when he/she makes the jump to movies

Bathroom Monologue: Guests at the Funeral for the Word "Good"

Great, grand, sensational, spectacular, astonishing, amazing, awesome, neat, solid, super, nice, fine, fabulous, fantastic, extreme and xtreme (everyone knows they're incestuous), positive, proactive, original, smooth, bold, deft, perfect, splendid, shining, glowing, peerless, marvelous, and cool (everyone's hoping she's the next to go). All attended, though none will miss Good. Like people, words hate being lesser synonyms.

Bathroom Monologue: Last Off Ramp with Gas

First we ceased to believe in anything we didn't see, and this was pragmatism. Then we didn't believe what we saw, and this was television. Then we didn't believe what we felt, and this was psychology. Then we didn't believe in anything, and this was nihilism. And there we were with no spirit, entertainment or hope, and someone had the nerve to ask why everyone was so angry. And everyone believed lynching that dumbass was justified, though they might not have said so, and this was society.