My Book: The Meaning of Life

Today, I reached page 1,000 of the book I’m writing about the meaning of life. I stopped for a moment to celebrate with a glass of grape juice, but as I gazed down at the stack of papers that the manuscript comprises, I realized that no one would ever read it, and even if they did, they wouldn’t agree with it or understand it or like it or it would cause them to track me down like a dog, or whatever, dude. Everybody has their own idea about the meaning of life and nothing that I’ve written so far will disabuse them of that idea.

But what if my meaning of life is right and yours is wrong? Are you gonna be pig-headed and refuse to change? Will you read 1,000 pages of convincing argument and then still cling to your own stupid idea? Sure you will, and that’s just plain ignorant. Don’t talk to me about the meaning of life; 300 pages of that meaning are about putting up with morons.

No, I’ve got to explain the meaning of life in a post no longer than this one. More words just get in the way. George Bush kept it down to a sentence or two. Limbaugh talks a lot, but that’s just a hippo tap-dancing. Perry… well, he’s still trying to deal with George grabbing his shoulder.

Excuse me a minute.

There, I dropped my 1,000 pages down the building’s trash chute. 54 floors to the bottom. The pages are probably still fluttering down.

Now to condense those pages into an epigram… But you’ve got to do a little work to get it… So here it is. The meaning of life, encrypted in the most  simple fashion:

You $&#*^$!!! I’m going to *(@*# &@#(* #@# your *#@&!!! @#$@# you!!!