Philosophers have argued for centuries about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, but materialists have known all along that it depends on whether they are doing the jitterbug or dancing cheek-to-cheek. (Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume)
What did the Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor?
Make me one with everything.
I started off this Monday morning with an incident of pet humour. This would be funnier if you’d met my dog, Sprocket, but if not, he’s a fluffy, black-and-white Shih-Tzu so maybe everyone can get a visual. This morning I was throwing his cactus for him to fetch...oh, wait. I should explain that this is a blue, stuffed toy cactus wearing a red cowboy hat (“Cactus Jack”) and not an actual cactus; it'd be downright evil to throw a spiny plant for your doggyboy’s morning fetching session. So I threw Cactus Jack, Sprocket went scampering across the room after him and stepped on one of Finn’s squeaky mice. It squeaked really loud - I guess he bounced down hard - I mean really loud. It scared the heck out of poor little Sprocket. He jumped up, whirled around and looked furiously about. Not seeing a likely culprit, he let out this random, multi-directional growl. Never think that a Shih-Tzu is incapable of giving someone a dirty look because I saw it today. He turned all the way around but still didn’t see the enemy, so he growled an all-points bulletin to let whomever might be in the vicinity know that he’s Boss Dog in These Here Parts.
When I arrived at work this morning, Mr. King had to give me a lecture. Mr. King is employed by Lanier Parking; officially, his job is to police and clean up our parking deck but as far as he’s concerned, his real job is to escort me across the street. I can’t decide if my mother got to Mr. King and communicated her unwavering belief that I am incapable of crossing a city street without getting mowed down, or if it’s one of those things you can tell just by looking. This morning, Mr. King was telling me to always wait for him, even if he was busy and he’d walk me between car and office for safety purposes. Not to digress, but Mr. King is an older gentleman and he weighs maybe 120 pounds; Estelle Getty could take him easily. But his intent is pure, that’s what matters, and he was particularly concerned because some lady got FLASHED in the elevator last week.
This didn’t bother me because I haven’t been on those elevators in 3 years or more; I always take the back stairs (not that you could tell this from the size of my behind). Even if I got flashed, I don’t think I’d be all that emotionally disturbed. I mean, NO, I certainly don’t want to see some random guy’s...uh...package, and frankly I’d rather we all kept our stuff to ourselves, but I have to say, my personal Victorian tendencies notwithstanding, that if some guy flashed me I think my first inclination would be to point and laugh. I’d probably say something awful before I could help it, too, like, “Oh, look! It’s like a d***, only smaller!”
What did the Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor?
Make me one with everything.
I started off this Monday morning with an incident of pet humour. This would be funnier if you’d met my dog, Sprocket, but if not, he’s a fluffy, black-and-white Shih-Tzu so maybe everyone can get a visual. This morning I was throwing his cactus for him to fetch...oh, wait. I should explain that this is a blue, stuffed toy cactus wearing a red cowboy hat (“Cactus Jack”) and not an actual cactus; it'd be downright evil to throw a spiny plant for your doggyboy’s morning fetching session. So I threw Cactus Jack, Sprocket went scampering across the room after him and stepped on one of Finn’s squeaky mice. It squeaked really loud - I guess he bounced down hard - I mean really loud. It scared the heck out of poor little Sprocket. He jumped up, whirled around and looked furiously about. Not seeing a likely culprit, he let out this random, multi-directional growl. Never think that a Shih-Tzu is incapable of giving someone a dirty look because I saw it today. He turned all the way around but still didn’t see the enemy, so he growled an all-points bulletin to let whomever might be in the vicinity know that he’s Boss Dog in These Here Parts.
When I arrived at work this morning, Mr. King had to give me a lecture. Mr. King is employed by Lanier Parking; officially, his job is to police and clean up our parking deck but as far as he’s concerned, his real job is to escort me across the street. I can’t decide if my mother got to Mr. King and communicated her unwavering belief that I am incapable of crossing a city street without getting mowed down, or if it’s one of those things you can tell just by looking. This morning, Mr. King was telling me to always wait for him, even if he was busy and he’d walk me between car and office for safety purposes. Not to digress, but Mr. King is an older gentleman and he weighs maybe 120 pounds; Estelle Getty could take him easily. But his intent is pure, that’s what matters, and he was particularly concerned because some lady got FLASHED in the elevator last week.
This didn’t bother me because I haven’t been on those elevators in 3 years or more; I always take the back stairs (not that you could tell this from the size of my behind). Even if I got flashed, I don’t think I’d be all that emotionally disturbed. I mean, NO, I certainly don’t want to see some random guy’s...uh...package, and frankly I’d rather we all kept our stuff to ourselves, but I have to say, my personal Victorian tendencies notwithstanding, that if some guy flashed me I think my first inclination would be to point and laugh. I’d probably say something awful before I could help it, too, like, “Oh, look! It’s like a d***, only smaller!”
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