Midway through the night, I had an awakening. I know now my true calling and unlike what I said earlier (or later depending on when this post is published) it’s not a telemarketer. I am a philosopher.
My blog partner Nics and I are widely known for our philosophical studies and academic pursuits. Me and him, known respectively by our nicknames as Dr. Phil-osophy (the wise and powerful bard of the known universe) and Nics, are world renowned in telling people what to do. Yet now I’ve realized it’s time for me to stop ordering people how to live their lives (which would mean I shouldn’t listen to what I am telling myself to do which would mean I shouldn’t listen to this! For the sake of my post, I’ll ignore this paradox). Yes, it’s finally time for me to stop telling people what to do. I need to write people what to do, preferably in the most confusing way possible.
One of my favorite philosophical idols (he advanced to the finals in season 3, would’ve won but Randy said no, he liked this dawg even less than guest host Michael Vick), Frederich Nietzsche, was a 19th century philosopher whose writings sent ripples through the ocean of ideas circulating through the landmass Europe. Nietzsche found a niche, eh, in important existentialists and National Socialist party think tanks (in the Nazi’s case, actual tanks). Though Nietzsche is important in the context of philosophy he brings me to my next point: death.
As most people are aware Nietzsche died August 25th, 1900 at the age of 55 from poisoned tube socks. Got ya! Can you guess which piece of info was false? Go ahead, guess. I’ll give you five seconds. Five, four, ok. As I’m assuming you deduced: Nietzsche isn’t dead. No one is. Nietzsche’s body and mind may no longer exist in the corporal sense, and it’s admiral to think of life and death as two separate identities, but in general everybody in every body will leave their physical vessel behind. In lieu of tenants his body is now an empty shell he once inhabited.
This is the type of philosophy I am known for, death stuff, and like a skilled criminal in jail or the skin of a pubescent teenager, I am capable of breaking out at will. So stand back, you’re about to experience a category five brainstorm. The levees of your mind are about to break only for an underfunded relief effort to be deployed because the George Bush of your brain hates the black people of your soul. Listen to this: if philosophy is an art then is Picasso the greatest philosopher of all time? Or try this on for size: what if we are all in purgatory right now because of the actions that went down on some island?
But here’s where shit gets real or wait, does shit get real? Reality is a subjective concept forced onto us by our minds by trying to reconcile the abstract with the space-time continuum. But anyways, like a burning pixar dvd, this is a warm up. And I can assure you I am now warm. I am ready to share with you my philosophical findings. I can show you what I have in store (and in limited stock online): a metaphysical analysis of the space-time continuum and some other shiz.