Proving Someone Is a Duck

I'm always thinking things are not what they seem. Such as the feeling I sometimes have that we're actually ducks. Some of us.

You can always say "Quack quack" and see how they respond. You might be surprised. If they respond accurately to your quacks, then it definitely looks like, at some level, they're at least showing duck consciousness.

I was testing my theory with a friend of mine, whom I will call Subject A. I said, "Quack quack quack," with various inflections in the words, and he responded like this: fingering me and sticking out his tongue. Exactly as I believe a duck would do hearing those same words and intonation.

It doesn't take many experiments like this to get the sense that you're on to something. Subject A didn't think I was serious, and that it was all a joke. But I counseled patience, that we were on the verge of something big. "Surely a few more experiments wouldn't overly quacks your patience."

Then as Subject A relaxed, I said, "Quack quack qu--quack." He looked at me, then reached for a tissue and wiped his bill. My theory is the quick hesitation (nasal stutter) in the "qu--quack" told my young duck friend he was about to sneeze if he didn't wipe. I pronounced it a success, the result being exactly what I've seen in other ducks.

As we continued, I noted another finding consistent with mainstream findings on ducks, that they simply won't sit still very long. Subject A was fidgety, wanting to move, wanting to get away from me, maybe even fly south. I gave a stern "Quack!," in no uncertain terms, and pointed with my finger for him to stay seated. And he did, letting me know that ducks understand the imperative tense.

I thought this would be a good time for the "Rapid Fire" round, which normally spooks ducks, coming as it so often does on the first day of hunting season:

--"OK, let's get down to quack." "Business," he said.
--"Six of quack, half-dozen of quack." "Six of one, half-dozen of another."
--"Fourquacks and quack years quack." Strangely he didn't consciously know this, but waddled to the closet and adorned his little head with a tiny stovepipe hat anyway.
--"A quack in the hand equals two quacks in the bush." "One duck masturbating is similar to two ducks mating," he said. That was a true Quack! moment for me. "Eureka!" I ejaculated.

Later, making things more official and controlled, I affixed sensors to his scalp. Then came right out and asked him, "Are you a duck?" "No," he insisted. This was consistent with my prior finding that most ducks live in denial. The sensors agreed with me, singeing the feathers on his head and changing his answer to "Yes."

Tiny Came Back As A Toilet Brush

I'm crediting this post to the influence of an adult education class I took at the community college a few months ago. Otherwise, I doubt I would've ever thought of it. I actually wasn't thinking about it ... it came like one of those flashes; you know how the brain works, no rhyme or reason to anything.

The class wasn't any big deal, nothing special. Probably everyone's taken it at some point. Certainly it's common enough, your everyday garden variety class on "Past Lives -- Intuitive Evolution." But it was sort of fun, a pleasant enough way to waste some time in the winter months. I just didn't think much about it after.

The funny thing about the class was how often everyone came to the "discovery" that they were famous people in their past lives. I think we had three different William the Conquerors, out of about 25 people! A couple U.S. presidents were in attendance, and of course Einstein. The rest of us were a little more reserved. If we thought we were famous years ago, we kept it to ourselves. My own thoughts about me, I'm sure I was a peasant, and in my non-human lives I can remember being a mollusk. Seriously. I picked up a dried empty shell by the lake the other day and once upon a time I think I knew the guy.

Anyway, today the class came to my mind when I had to do some spot cleaning on the toilet -- you probably know what I mean -- and I felt some intuitive sensations in the handle of the brush. Sounds crazy, I know, but a flash came to me, which was from the "intuitive evolutionary" part of the class. The flash, then a dawning awareness, then an absolute certainty, was the freaky knowledge that my toilet brush is the present life-form incarnation of a guy I used to know in high school. He came back as a toilet brush! Believe me, I know how it sounds, but if it weren't true, why would I have thought of it?

I held the brush, trembling -- having used it first -- and this guy's image came into my mind as clear as anything. And it's not even a guy I knew that well. I don't even remember his real name, just his nickname, which was Tiny. He was one of those big guys who got the ironic name of Tiny. Like Big Tiny Little, the barroom, honky-tonk piano player who used to record for Decca Records.

And it makes a certain amount of sense, the whole thing of him now existing as my toilet brush, because Tiny was a scourge toward me. How fitting it is that his karma would be such that he would reincarnate and devolve to a basic non-living (it appears) household implement for me to use. And, please, before you write in, don't blame me ... he brought it on himself.

I hadn't actually even heard that he died, because like I said, I don't even remember his name ... it might have been Don, or Clint, or Kenny, something like that. No, there was a different guy named Kenny who hated my guts. I haven't run across Kenny's soul yet. He's probably still living. I'd Google him but I'd have to destroy my computer if I found him. He was another scourge, much worse.

Tiny wasn't as bad as Kenny, but still he was bad enough. We were only in one class together, and there must have been plenty of time for talking among ourselves, because I remember him always being on me for some reason. This is embarrassing to say, in a way, because Tiny had a thing about masturbation ... know what I mean? He mentioned it all the time.

He was a huge guy, so that probably had something to do with it. He used to accuse me of various things and ply me for information on masturbation. What I'm saying, I hope you realize, is 100% true. Beyond that, he insulted me in various ways, probably because I actually was small and his name of Tiny had something to do with him being such a behemoth. He definitely saw me as a victim ... which I obviously was. I didn't have the confidence -- or sufficient knowledge on projection and karma, etc.  -- to be able to tell him, "Yeah, but someday you'll be a toilet brush and I'll still be a man." If only I'd known!

So there I was, this morning, with Tiny in my hand! I thought, Oh my God! I've used him a hundred times and didn't know it was him! But today was so completely different. I had the intuitive flash. I realized it was him ... and my reaction was something like this: I felt weird about it, the terrible conditions Tiny's been living in all this time...

You know how it is with toilet brushes. They have a holder. You use it and stick it in the holder, which always has about a quarter inch of water from previous days. I look down at that holder every time and think I should clean it. But then I don't, because what's the use? ...  it's only going to get wet again. Plus, it'd mean having to touch it, then having to wash my hands for 20 minutes. Still, it's like a little cesspool of germs, down among the rest of the muck, the occasional pubic hair, etc., very disgusting. This is where a guy should have maid service.

OK, how do you think I treated the toilet brush once the flash came to me that it was Tiny back from the dead? Did I use him with malice? Did I put him through the paces? Did I slam him back into the holder with the water? No, I didn't do any of that. I used it as normal, then put it back in its place as normal. One, I don't want to break it and have to waste money for a new one; I might get someone I don't even know. But, two, I am a merciful person. Mercy is my Number One rule. If they ever build a monastery in my memory, mercy will be their basic thing.

At this point, I don't really have any living enmity toward Tiny. Even though he was older than me at the time, I think two grades ahead, he was still just a kid. He had to be around 18. His brain hadn't really entirely formed ... and I don't know that it ever did. He was a bully, yes, but maybe he had troubles at home. And as far as his own self image, being huge and being called Tiny, then whacking off and having to torture other kids out of his guilt, let's say, the whole projection thing, he had more problems than he knew what to do with.

So, no, I haven't got it in for Tiny. And as far as his return, his devolution, his reincarnation as a lowly toilet brush, I did not consciously have anything to do with that. How soul entities are reincarnated, divvied out, is clearly not my department.

Revisiting The Wood Manhood Relics

FOUR DIFFERENT HIPSTAMATIC PICTURES FOR GREATER VALIDITY OF THE EVIDENCE

Summary of The Wood Manhood Affair: In India, one of Master's chelas (students) was disobedient to the work of seeking oneness with the Divine. Instead, he, Brother Unsettled, abused his member on chain-link fences, wood surfaces, and trees. The result was his turning to wood. His now-wooden manhood was preserved, to serve as a spiritual lesson and warning to others. I have custody of the relics. The yoni-shaped wood appears to have been Unsettled's only true comfort.

Being the custodian of sacred relics is a big responsibility. First, there is the physical tending to them. Second, there are inquiries I get from time to time as to their whereabouts and condition, as well as requests to see them and/or touch them. Most of these requests are denied; frankly, I think that's a sick request. But it's understandable that chelas would want to know how they are. In short, they're just fine.

It's been some time now since my post in July 2011, which made me think the whole thing needed to be revisited. At least insofar as how the relics are doing. And lest anyone thinks they can simply come on my property and take the relics, no, it won't be that simple. They are kept in a safe deposit box at the bank.

I know you'll find this interesting. First, about the photos, that's four Hipstamatic photos of the wooden manhood of Brother Unsettled, plus the yoni, plus an extraneous piece of wood, the little chip. If you examine the evidence carefully, you will see one photo is slightly different from the rest. Very interesting!

Anyway, to examine the relics, I went ... I got myself together and went ... to the bank and to the safe deposit box. If you've ever done this, you know you have to be prepared for the real life equivalent of a video game, with many challenging passages along the way.

Of course I had my ID and the passwords memorized. Then arriving at the bank, I had to machete my way through a gauntlet of part-time bank employees, arranged to test my resolve for the task. Next, there were 10 secretaries, each with one letter or alphanumeric character of the first password. Finally, I got to Sue, the little lady next to the vault. I offered Sue my identification once again and a special password that only Sue and I know.

At the threshold of the vault, I took a deep breath and sought heaven for strength to withstand the ordeal. Of course I removed the sacred golden sword from the wall before passing through gate after gate. I was surprised (but not shocked) when two guardian lions sprang out. I slew them, then in quick progression a dozen leopards, a half dozen king cobras, and a school of Great White sharks. It was like I was back in the Amazon when vampire bats swooped down and immediately attacked my pith helmet.

Going further, I cut myself through the thickest vines I've ever seen, huge thick SOBs. I didn't even know vines came that thick. They were either vines or a giant's legs, now I'm not sure which. Do vines bleed and bellow out "Oww"? Then it was a giant, or maybe a whole family. All the vines out of the way, I swam up the falls, 100 feet if it was an inch. Being a good vertical swimmer, this wasn't as hard as it sounds.

Making it to land, I rounded a corner and found another guard. But this guy was a dried up skeleton, there at the base of the wall. Obviously paid by the hour, he had fallen asleep and died. I saw the final key in amongst his dust and bones! I entered the box room and unlocked the box. This set off the final safeguard, three or four mousetraps, which hurt like hell!

All done, I pulled out the metal container. When I opened it, there they were, the relics laid out on the softest red velvet. It was at this point that I took the pictures seen above. It about took my breath away, to see Brother Unsettled's wooden remains, the most vital parts of himself that had given him such fits. It was cautionary to me: Do not rebel, do not let it go to waste. I sat right there, right that very minute, and entered into the greatest devotional ecstasy.

All in all, I was amazed at how well preserved the relics were, even in this normal stuffy bank.

He Had His Wisdom Nuts Removed

This guy I knew had to have the worst operation a man can imagine. It's what a lot of us fear but have never dealt with, the removal of the wisdom nuts.

They're always up there, like wisdom teeth, but they're usually in a state of quiescence, more or less twiddling their thumbs. The theory is, if there's nothing to trigger them, they're simply dormant your whole life. That's what usually happens. But if triggered, God forbid, their descent means nothing less than certain death, or in milder cases, excruciating pain and embarrassment.

What triggers the wisdom nuts to descend? Most men have nothing to fear, since the basic trigger is the fairly uncommon practice of masturbation. Thanks to the discipline of self-control, begun in our teen years, most of us are completely safe. But there's always that foolish few... And they are in even greater danger if they happen to be fantasizing about larger women or dinosaurs. That's not a slam against larger women, because it's an evolutionary fact that a man will psychologically feel less capable of satisfying a bigger gal, hence the triggering of the extra nuts.

As for dinosaurs, many of our ancestors were the victims of dinosaur attacks. They'd be climbing a tree to escape and a dinosaur would bite off their nuts. Then, if they somehow made it to safety, their wisdom nuts would descend, of course not knowing there was no sac to hold them, as nature had somehow neglected to create a wisdom version of the scrotum.

So what happened to my friend? He told me not to tell anyone, but since no one reads my blog anyway, I guess I can say it. He was fired from his job about six months ago, and he's been scraping by with barely any cash. So he had to move back in with his mom. It's a bad situation. OK, here's the thing: He got his old room back, OK? Which just happened to have his old dinosaur wallpaper from the '90s. And his mom's a rather large woman, so I'll leave it to you to figure out his fantasy life...

Anyway, he noticed some uncomfortable shifting, some painful movement of a tectonic nature down there, and next thing he knew he was writhing in agony. They got him to the hospital, and the tests showed he had a serious problem, his wisdom nuts had to come out!

(Plus, I'm not a doctor by any stretch of the imagination, but looking at the picture, it looks like he's having trouble passing a Mitt Romney-shaped turd. The Republicans have the same complaint, but they're looking on the bright side: "He may be a turd, but at least he's white!")

So what's the main problem with wisdom nuts? There's not really a good place for them to be in the human anatomy as it's presently arranged. And they don't have a dedicated path down. So they just plow through whatever tissue happens to be in the way, causing terrific pain. Again, look at the picture. That's three lines of radiating pain on each side, extremely hard to endure.

Let my friend's trouble serve as a lesson for you: Mom and Barney don't mix.