SHEEP MANIA - LEVEL 33

I got myself a new toy. It's a mobile phone ("a phone" as I like to call it). My previous phone came directly from the Dark Ages (and it had no Chess…). Luckily, my brother decided to sell it to me as he was going to buy a better one.

It has lots of games available (and Chess!!!) because of something wonderful called "Symbian Operating System", "JAVA" and crap like that.

I couldn't care less about that technical stuff, especially on the field of "phone technology". I guess we all know one or two Phone-Nuts (more if you are really unlucky) who are able to describe these systems (and others I can't even mention because my brain usually gets catatonic) with increasing enthusiasm, for hours, in such an obscene detail that you are led to believe that they invented these systems themselves. It's a "phone" guys. Just a freaking phone… It can't be that fascinating. It's a dumb machine.

But there are PC-Nuts too. And they behave in a similar way and are sometimes the same "one or two people you know" (My apologies if by any chance you happen to suffer from this disorder. Get well soon!).

Coming to think of it, there are Nuts everywhere about: cars, shoes, food, soccer, clothes, vegetables, Star Trek, Elvis, Cannabis, LIDL supermarkets, the fascinating Royal Game of Che… (Oops! Let's carry on...)

First thing I did on the "phone" was to download and install every remotely interesting looking game that I could find (Torrents are so cool! But make me wish I had one Terabyte more of hard disk space…).

Well, I then began to try them out one by one.

When I got to "Sheep Mania" (fifth game I tried…), I just went berserk and kept playing it without being aware of the horrible fate that was in store for me.

I was doing fine and going through the levels like a bullet. I got to the point where I was able to solve the puzzles in advance on my mind and only then move those lazy sheep around and into their rightful blue places. I was feeling just like a clever Sheppard would (if they existed).

But suddenly this "so-full-of-himself" bullet hit on a wall. A giant unsurpassable wall. I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong. The sheep began losing some confidence in their once brilliant leader.

I've been showing this level to friends and they also couldn't see how to solve it.

It's known as "Level 33" (a.k.a. the Horror Level).

I am beginning to obsess with this. It just isn't possible to be that hard. But I presently believe it's harder than finding a cure for cancer. When and if I ever get to see what level 34 looks like (which is basically what I would expect Heaven to be at this point), my next step will be to find a cure for cancer. Nothing can be as difficult as Sheep Mania's dreaded… Level 33.

I hate this level already and it's only been two days (this is no way to begin a serious relationship). When I stop on the sidewalk waiting for the traffic lights to go green, I begin to visualise it. I wake up thinking about it too. I know that after work, he will be waiting for me. And I wonder what the world will be like when I eventually conquer this tremendous enigma.

I've started to dream nightmares about the horrible… Level 33; and waking up soaking in nervous sweat screaming "NOOooooo! SHEEP! MORE SHEEP!! 33 SHEEP! ARGH! THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!" and stuff like that.

I have already wasted more time on this level alone than on all the others put together. That's how hard it is. It actually took me less than an hour and a half to get to this level (not in one go as I unfortunately have a job and got to show up or they might think I'm dead or something). I reckon that I have now been around this one since Friday (today is Sunday, I think...). Almost two hours overall and… nothing! This is so frustrating.

I now intend to spend this Sunday afternoon fighting with my hangover mind against the legendary… Level 33. Behold for it is the Titan's Struggle of the whole weekend! This is probably one of the signs of the coming Apocalypse too.

Most people would probably just give up at this point (no one likes feeling stupid), but I have solved very difficult Chess problems (I'm slightly addicted to Chess…slightly…). So, herding these stupid sheep cannot be harder than Chess. It is not possible. Chess is the hardest thing you can try to master and a lifetime is not enough (don't blame chess for this, blame Life for being rather short). I cannot also embrace the fact that I'm not able to solve the amazingly problematic… Level 33.

I feel like I've stumbled upon a fifth dimension crack of insane reality (I want to get out, but they keep pulling me back in). Although it may not seem, I am in fact an extremely rational and logical person (not all the time, "obviously").

Now I know how Kasparov felt on that scaring second game against IBM Deep Blue in 1997 in which the machine began to play human-like moves.

This is the face of the monster I'm trying to defeat. Presenting, "Sheep Mania" (Level 33 is lurking inside):

I know. It looks harmless and cute. But just try and solve it and you'll see what it does to the concept you have of your intelligence (it's usually a fantasy anyway).
This level will swallow you whole and slowly digest you alive.

Whenever I have a difficult problem, well… I obsess about it until I see a solution. I can be very persistent as I simply don't give up. I keep going back until I see it done. That's also why it is generally a bad idea to mess with me. I know no boundaries, no limits of any sort, when I get like this. It's a darker shade of me (which I really like because it reminds me of "The Godfather" trilogy which I simply adore for obvious reasons). It seldom presents itself, but now it is time for it to come forth. My darker side and the baffling… Level 33 are about to get acquainted with each other. It will be like a terrible mob war! (for the puzzling… Level 33, I hope…)

[Two struggling long hours later...]

Eureka!!! I finally got it! I'm so happy!

Sunday, October 28th 2007 (at precisely 18:03) is a date which will live in infamy for all Sheep! (especially those from Level 33)

I knew I could do it without having to set the problem up on a chessboard with pawns instead of sheep; Or without complex strategic campaign plans of attack (I was feeling desperate at some point...). I feel I've broken a mental barrier and incidentally completely wasted my Sunday afternoon. And for what? Stupid sheep. I hate the now broken… Level 33. And sheep. But Level 33…. Grrr…. I hope they all go into the slaughter house when they're finally on those blue circles waving goodbye.

Why couldn't I just play something else? Like "Snakes and Ladders", "Trivial Pursuit" (for kids) or "Monopoly" (Junior) or … or something that doesn't resemble mental torture?!

Sometimes it's really complicated being me. I like mental challenges but this was pure pain. My head aches (and not just from last night's Red Label) and I think it looks slightly bigger, reminding me of a documentary I saw on Area 51, featuring autopsies and interviews with this funny little green fella.

But what a relief!... Aaaah!… It's refreshing to feel a taste of victory (a small one but nonetheless…)
Now, I'm out to tell the fascinating tale of "our hero's journey" into the haunted Dark Forest (a.k.a. the 33th Sheep Triangle). And I'll probably need duck tape and some rope to make sure people will hear the end of this glorious and heroic odyssey of a very stubborn bloke versus a tiny puzzle level.

Hmm… for a moment, it didn't sound like much of an accomplishment, but you try it. Really! Get the stupid game on your phone and see for yourself.

Level 33 is waiting for a piece of your mind too…

And if you get stuck on some earlier level, you know what to do: tell no one about it!

I need to rest. This was exhausting.

Nevertheless, "Cure for Cancer" you're next and it'll surely be a walk in the park (I guess everything will be after this…). Splitting the atom doesn't look so difficult now too.

When I get back from the diner, I'll take a brave look at level 34. It's gotta be easy…

MY (OUR) SPLIT PERSONALITY (IES)

It is true. I confess.

My personality is in fact split in two.

I call my alter ego the same name to avoid confusion – and the eventual collapse of social life.

I've parenthesised him to divide the bad from the "badder" (You separatist &%$!). This is already chaotic enough as it is and as you can see, he's not that polite too (*grumpy inaudible muttering*…).

Having Split Personality is a bit like a vinyl record playing both sides alternatively; or a coin that's always flipping and spinning; a bit like Janus, the Roman god who suffered from some slight bicephaly problems – more specifically a craniofacial duplication condition – ever since he attempted to break a wooden plank with his nose; or the Greek mythological monster Chimera, fruit of the forbidden love between two sexually confused animals and a very short-sighted one; or Orthrus, a two-headed mythic watchdog famous for both his fantastic Value for Money two-in-one security skills, and his fabled unique ability to bark, non-stop and in stereo, all night long – actually until every single Greek deity began considering suicide "a good career move"… (Look pal, everybody got the picture when you wrote "Split Personality" on the freaking title! Get on with it, I got stuff to do… Gotta tell you though, after all this time together it still amazes me the amount of gibberish nonsense you're able to squeeze into a single paragraph. Jeez!...)

Before the ugly word "he'scrazy" comes springing out with a typical slow sideways shaking of the head, please bear in mind that he's the mental one (oh! Really? You cannot possibly be serious…). I guess that makes me only "half-mental" as opposed to "complete lunatic sociopath" (Just look at the creepy stuff I have to put up with and on a daily basis… *sigh*).

Moreover, what most people describe as "mood swings", might just be hard evidence that there's someone attending the party of brainwaves going inside your mind that you didn't invite. That and ventriloquists.

Anyhow, this had to come out sooner or later and before it became too obvious (before-what?! *laughing all the way to the bank*). It has the advantage of making me look slightly less mad. At least I'm aware of it (Give the guy a nice plastic medal). But, how could it be otherwise? When one talks to one's other self (That's me!), this very topic tends to come up more frequently than you'd imagine it to (Or desire...). The truth is that I'm no longer fooling anyone, so I might as well admit to everything and have some fun with it.

"Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" is a novel that speaks to my (our) heart(s) for obvious reasons. We actually got into an argument with each other about this very book because we both think we're the cool evil Mr. Hyde. Eventually we settled with Mr. Hyde also having Split Personality. We are presently discussing which one of us is the Mr. Hyde who pays the bills.

Some people have said to me, on occasion, that the voices I hear are my…hmm… what was that complicated word again? (It was "Conscience" you sick bastard). Oh, right. So it was.

Well, anyway, I then had a rather easy choice to make: either thinking I have a moral intruder living within (We both thought that could become uncomfortable); or else a moron I could easily overcome and ignore (Waitaminute! Who's being impolite now?). You are, for interrupting with your verbal pollution (*long sullen silence*).

I chose the latter and I'll probably be regretting this decision because it is sometimes confusing to exist like this (*whispering*: Tell me about it…). If one writer takes an hour to leave a short note to his mum, five will take the rest of the week just to decide on the greeting introduction (Was that a joke? My God…You should have taken that Paper Recycling job opportunity after all).

We come a long way and I've had, in the past, to do his homework for him (Ha! So you did, so you did…Sucker.). As you can probably tell already, he's a bit slow in the head (What the f***?! &§@%!!! ... *breathing heavily* … 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…).

He really thinks that he too has Split Personality.
I keep telling him that his alter ego is me or his conscience (Oh boy! Here we go again…12, 13, 14,…), but he never listens. I really think he made the whole thing up just to pick with me (Yeah, right…19, 20, 21,…).

The sad truth is that he's recently been diagnosed with Multiple Personality disorder (29, 3o… Ha-A! So, the professionals are, more or less…, on my side. I knew I had something wrong too but always thought it to be you).

To make things even more complicated, he calls his other personalities the same name we already have (Obviously to avoid confusion and social holocaust). This has the downside of making it impossible to hold credible elections as to see who's going to drive the body everyday. The same guy always wins and we can never come to realise just who he is.

Which one of us is real? (Me! Me!) We have long discussions about this and never seem to agree.

Myself, my alter ego and his imaginary friends, once came to the conclusion that none of us existed outside the scope of each other's imagination, but then we all sat on the two-day-science-project looking Lasagne lying forgotten on the sofa and the whole thing had to be thought all over from scratch (Indeed. It was a terrible blow as we were pretty certain we did not exist, but that mutant Lasagne on the pyjama was contradicting the very fundaments of our reasoning, namely because it did exist for sure).

Nonetheless, It was cool not to exist and to be able to utter the original excuse: "I haven't paid the loan lately because I realised I don't exist" to the cashier at the bank.

The fact is that this brain is getting a bit too crowded and sometimes it's difficult to accommodate everybody. There are some conflicting interests as we all have to make do with a single skinny body (Not to mention a deliriously imaginative mind).
Maybe larger and taller people can fit in more characters inside of them (Come again? You've just sunken into a new personal low. Incredible…).

Sometimes I want to sleep but he doesn't. It's also somewhat awkward, when one of us needs to use the toilet. We usually take turns which means I have to make the trips there twice as many times.

We don't even have the exact same taste in clothing, but fortunately wear the same size.

He usually picks - quite randomly I'm affraid - the top part; I get to choose - very carefully - the lower ones (This usually takes us two hours as it has proven to be almost impossible to put on a shirt and tie the shoes at the same time).

That might partially explain why we both (You) sometimes dress as if daltonism was a part of our (Your) psyche when in fact he is the one who's incapable of sorting out the difference between greenish blue and bluish green (It can't be done, I tell ya.).

Good thing we both enjoy watching the same shows and do some of the same stuff or else it would be impossible to survive this strange condition. For example, I don't like "Futurama" as much as he does but I make him watch the "Simpsons" to compensate.

It's terrific when I go to the cinema with him because we get a discount (We can purchase two tickets for the price of one and a half!).

We once dated the same girl for some time, but then he got fed up with her and met another in a different town. It was horrible to watch them make out. But on weekends he had to see me do it so I guess it was only fair.

Well, the good part with this situation is that sex has always been a threesome with one of us being rapped (Damn! Just how sick are you? Ok. You get to be the paying bills Mr. Hyde.). That's also why I'm a bit timid when it comes to dating for it is hard to express poetic love when there's this creep laughing through every hint of sentimentalism.

It's also infuriating when he changes the channel while I'm watching a movie (Yeah! And I always wait for the moment the main character is about to have the usual staggering revelation that twists the plot). I've actually used this to justify my apparent anti-social TV watching. The expression of disbelief on the faces of friends made me rethink my straightforwardness (Wow! Now this can't be a real word. You clearly made it up. What the hell is that? A train in disguise? A bulimic bird? No! It's Superword! *smiling sardonically*).

I personally think this whole thing has something to do with mirrors and Parallel Universes, but couldn't really quite figure out how. This hypothesis sounds a bit farfetched, notwithstanding it is still in the realm of possibilities (He surely means in the realm of "psychotic" possibilities, folks).

But if there are really Parallel Universes living in mirrors then I may be merely in touch with my outer dimensional self from another dimension (Probably the Fifth). And that would imply that even the Universe has Multiple Personalities. And then I wouldn't feel so peculiar and misplaced.

At the end of the day, this is like owning a private Parallel Universe in easy-to-carry format (Same here man).

(Oh, wait. That's it? You're done!? Phew…Glad this crap is finally over. For a moment there I thought I'd never hear the end of it. I feel…happy and... hmm… Psst! I think I need to use the little boy's room).

THE BANKSY METHOD

Banksy is a well-known, provocative and controversial graffiti artist. His ironic art can sometimes be found on the dirty walls of an anonymous street, next to a PUB, on the side of a sexual health clinic or even on live animals.

His unique satirical approach is rather refreshing, amusing and depressing at the same time. Above all, I think he has a great sense of humour.

I'm guessing his official website may look something like this:

http://www.banksy.co.uk/

Mr. Banksy is sometimes described as an "Art Terrorist" (everyone's a terrorist nowadays...), because he sneakily hanged subverted versions of famous paintings on leading museums and prestigious galleries, without express permission from its directors (or his own parents).

He is actually famous for this modus operandi and a great inspiration for six-year-old children (and me) who also wish to see their House-With-Smiling-Sun-And-Family drawings on exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art.

He maintains some degree of anonymity to avoid arrest, because graffiti is illegal. Some believe his name's Robin Banks (a joke name for: "robbing banks") or, more seriously, Rob Banks from Bristol, UK. Yet, no one's really sure of his true identity (a bit like a superhero). Not even his parents who actually think, according to the man himself, that he's some sort of painter or decorator (or an accountant who just happens to own thousands of spray cans).

In 2005, he painted on the Israeli Wall which stands three times higher than the Berlin Wall and is, accordingly, three times more degrading for mankind (and also for the Israeli government).

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/4748063.stm

Well, soon after reading more about him, I found myself inclined to pull the same sort of stunt to slightly increase the popularity of this blog.

By the way, I wish to proudly announce that the readers sum now (amazingly) exceeds the rather depressing total of zero (Hurray…) and also to greet them all with much heartfelt love ("Hi Mom! Learn English, please..."); but are however still less than two, which is not that bad if put into the right perspective.

I hope to change this state of affairs in the next decade.

I've got plenty of time. I think…

My doctor has a different opinion and said to me that staying up all night, jumping meals, drinking and smoking like there's always another tomorrow was bad for me. All the other doctors I've visited seem to have attended the same boring medical school and I just can't find one that will let me sin against my self-preservation (without feeling kinda guilty about it, you know...).

After some meditation, I decided to take marketing guerrilla action into my own hands and chose a place where everybody had to go sooner or later. So I posted an advertising poster on the back of the local gravedigger without him noticing. It's harder than you might think at first as I had to play dead for some time until I got my chance.

It went pretty well up to the point when he had to lay off work and go home to his wife and kids. I ceased to immobilize him against a tombstone when I eventually realised that it's very hard to read anything when you're lying down under the ground.

Being dead, as I was later told, is an exceptionally time consuming occupation. There's no time to read anything longer than three small words.

Besides, the few undead who did read it said to me – and I quote: "you should perhaps pursue other interests such as erasing texts instead of writing them. It's a steady occupation and I heard there was an opening at the Paper Recycling Factory.".

It was a tempting idea and I knew it was the practical thing to do, therefore I didn't do it.

Banksy would be so proud of me for being anti-establishment and anti-capitalism. He more than once turned down a huge contract with Nike involving "mad money" (sic). How many of us could afford to do the same?

Apparently, he could. His works have been selling like hot cookies and have reached record values in auctions. His street and subversive artist image has been ironically appropriated by the rich and famous.

While one of these auctions was still going on, he sent a note to be read to all the auctioneers saying: "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE BUYING THIS SHIT YOU THICK CUNTS.".

But the buyers there just didn't get the anti-commercial message and the note itself was subsequently auctioned for sale! (The irony in this is plainly unbelievable…)

In fact, all the commercialisation of his art is driving him nuts and he's much irritated by this entire media circus around him:

http://www.martian.fm/banksy_manifesto.htm

Anyway, I pursued my second alternative (which was also coincidentally my plan B) and targeted the Police Station.

However, in an attempt to deviate my marketing work from Banksy's, and thus make my feat more original, I decided to ask my parents for permission (therefore avoiding the copyright lawsuits Mr Banksy's lawyers had promised me over the phone when I asked for some free advice).

Unfortunately, when I phrased the question to my parents, I inadvertently commutated "…Police Station" with "…in my room.".

It was an understandable mistake but as so often happens (for some unknown reason especially with me), I was too embarrassed to retract myself and nailed my publicity post behind the door to my old room.

By the way, I "obviously" no longer live with my parents and I think anyone over thirty who still does should be ashamed and hide it as a state secret. I suggest you tell people that your parents are the ones living with you instead (like I used to do when I was twelve).

I finally went to the Police and very subtly managed to glue the blog advertisement to the counter while I complained that my priceless gold watch had been stolen.

It was a good spot as I knew that two of the Law Enforcers were fabled to have some sense of humour (they laughed a lot while writing traffic tickets).

The next part of my deviously conceived plan was to rob everybody in the neighbourhood in order to increase the number of people going to the police and therefore reading my clandestine advertisement.

I'm now writing this from jail.

Apparently, the two policemen I referred to earlier had retired from active duty and my blog post advert ("The Police: those stupid lazy bastards who pretend to protect us") was taken as evidence. I think they're not giving it back to me.

My splendid Banksy-styled plan had a minor flaw: my name was on the damn thing. Those clever detectives were able to crack the case in less than four hours, setting a new standard in criminal investigation for the whole country.

I still think however that this Police Station idea really looked, sounded and tasted like a good one (even though I usually prefer ideas such as roast turkey and chocolate ice cream).

In my cell, I was comforted by the thought that this has happened in the past to Einstein and his brilliant plan to end World War II by helping to build a bomb so powerful that it would end not only that one, but also all future wars.

He was probably aiming for a Nuclear Holocaust of biblical proportions enough to utterly destroy our planet, thus ensuring ever lasting peace in the rest of the Universe.

It was a great concept, but it didn't quite work and the planet is more or less still in one piece with everybody pretty much alive (extreme Pacifists are outraged to this very day).

I can now see even more clearly why Mr. Banksy goes to great lengths to protect his identity.

It's the secret winning strategy against the Law.

MORBID CURIOSITY

I made my higher studies away from home, about two hours away on a double-decker coach. As an incorrigible bohemian I did more than just study hard. Going out every single night with so many fascinating and wonderful people was a real life changing experience and if you have a choice between studying close to home (and not having your own room) and going into a different city, always prefer the latter. You won't be alone out there that much I can promise you.

"The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know" is a groovy Russian proverb that states the obvious: we fear the Unknown [*creepy church organ*]; and it holds somewhat true except in what concerns this very specific matter (and new girlfriends).

One late Friday afternoon, I was, as usual, on one of those journey's back home, switching between my new found world and the old one, when the bus suddenly stopped. I was travelling on the top level so I was able to see all the immobile cars lining up as far as I could perceive (this could be from three to four meters as I have a common visual impediment known as the "not changing glasses when you should" Syndrome).

At this point, as the proud and inveterate chain smoker that I am, I quickly began to distress. It was taking so long for our transportation to move that our stubborn driver finally gave in to the "smoking opportunity" argument and allowed us to go outside for some quick smokes (we were whining very loudly too).

While outside, by the side of the road, the rumours of an accident travelled all the way from the crash site until they reached our ears.

When the driver called us back in, I could not understand why, for we could easily follow our transportation on foot. It almost didn't move for several precious smoking minutes. A couple of arrogant snails were having a rare moment of glory as they passed us by, laughing their shells off.

Actually, we were moving so slowly that I imagined that this terrible disrupting disaster must have involved a long heavy truck filled with some high inflammable fluid and a radioactive secret NASA project that happened to be passing by. I was honestly expecting to see a replica of the Barringer Crater on the freeway (which - in the remote case you are not God - looks something like this when viewed from the sky: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Meteor.jpg).

Traffic authorities were now surely building a temporary bridge strong enough for us to pass over the huge crater filled with bodies similar to those from the "Night of the Living Dead" (but I tend to hyperbolise things, and sometimes even exaggerate – so I've been told).

Naturally, I was immensely disappointed when I saw the highway unbelievably still in one piece and, to my utter disbelief, not even a symbolic blood stain on the asphalt (or undead zombies' limbs for that matter). Every single driver was slowing down his march only to a get a peek on the possible horrid and sordid details which, to much general disappointment, only consisted in scratch paint and some smashed front lights. The policemen were signaling drivers to move along: "There's nothing to see here…". And there wasn't. Really.
I was amazed that such a sissy accident could make the traffic flow stop on BOTH directions! Cars on the opposite lane were also slowing down to check out this "Gentle Tragedy of the Slightly Broken Headlights".

But everybody – and I mean "everybody" (yours truly included) – had to take a long closer look. We wanted blood. The director's cut of the Tiananmen Square Massacre in stupid traffic jam flavour. Instead, it was a true fraud on one's great expectations of a free freak show… *sight*


And I must ask: Is this morbid curiosity phenomenae universal? Does it happen on other planets too? Why do human beings facing a car crash instantly become the traffic inspector of the month? Am I entitled to some sort of benefit for those hours forever stolen from my existence and which I can never get back? And if so, does the government pay by cheque or electronic transfer? (I'll leave these difficult questions open for further sociological study.)


After we had passed the accident scene and just when I fondly thought that the worst was over, I painfully began to realize that our driver was going as slowly as he possibly could (snails were again poking fun at us as they passed us by), probably because a flop crash is nevertheless a crash and it makes people somewhat more cautious. It takes away the courage from your otherwise intrepid maniacal suicide driver.

My two hour trip became a five hour odyssey where nothing interesting happens. In order to entertain myself a bit, I came up with some progressive and controversial ideas to stop this sort of thing from happening again. My mixed feelings of boredom and rebellion can be single out as the main inspiration for this first set of overwhelmingly surprising ideas:

a) Destroy all vehicles (except the coach that takes me home);

b) Blind everybody who is curious (or may be in the future);

c) Hunt down all the drivers who slow down when they see an accident (do not accept such lame and classic excuses as: "I was slowing down to see if assistance to the wounded was necessary");

d) Legally prevent people from having the liberty of stepping outside their homes - especially with a car - and call it the "National Home Imprisonment Act" (the "National" part is obviously intended to make it more appealing for both Neo-conservatism and National Socialism enthusiasts alike).

As these brilliant ideas came into my mind, I laughed a little bit (something along the lines of "BUA-HAHA-ha-ha-a…") and briefly recalled my lifelong dream of "founding of an Empire as big as planet Earth with someone really capable as its eternal ruler" (I usually say this while discreetly coughing and pointing very tactfully at my thorax), but soon realized they were not possible to put into practice, due to financial constraints.


So I had to try solving it some other (cheaper) way. In the spirit of the economically feasible, I devised a few products which could very well spell the end of "Morbid Curiosity" epidemic as we know it and in a very near future.

*drums* *suspense* *deep voice with reverb*:

Now, for the first time in Human History, presenting this unbelievable product designed to save us from the loss of priceless wasted traffic time…

*more suspense* *people biting their finger nails in excitement*

Yes!!! It's the incredible:

"Traffic Accident Curious Onlooker Preventing BLINDER" (tm)
(Patent pending)

*glorious [previously recorded] applause*

"But, how does this amazing invention work?" – You might ask.

Well, it's basically a curtain that completely surrounds the accident scene thus hindering the vicious inquisitive ones from satisfying their sordid peeking needs (like verifying the body count).

And it has such marvellous options: the optional dull photos which will make any curious driver look away for something more interesting (e.g. the grey sidewalk); and the stunning electric land mines (for those who try to come near and lift the screen).

As a complementary solution to this rather complex problem I then came up with "Simulated Car Collisions" (tm) (Patent also pending) to avoid speeding freaks from gathering the necessary mindless bravery by having some strategically placed false accidents just for show. This would mean having an office that would come up with different "motifs". We would, of course, need to pay handsomely to those people who have a sick enough imagination to help preventing traffic slowdowns and accidents by creating them (I'm available, by the way).

The third approach is the widely misunderstood "Fake-an-Accident Civil Program" (patent refused due to stupidity). It consists on "volunteers" (concept subject to redefinition without notice) that agree beforehand to have a small but effective accident on a busy freeway, aiming directly at cutting public expenses.


There must certainly be a market for these ideas; I will therefore be filthy rich pretty soon (and world domination will be at last within my grasp).

It is now, I believe, just a matter of time...

HOW LONG CAN YOU HOLD YOUR BREATH?

Today I decided to find out how long I could hold my breath by writing these lines in which I make no point in particular and that's something so I'm writing just to make sure you do know that ideas are hard to come by and also to become acquainted with this revolutionized method for checking your lungs and see if they really work and for these reasons alone I'm merely filling the blank paper or screen with this extremely long run-down sentence which does not say anything really or even addresses any sort of subject because of the reason stated earlier on this one sentence blog which will surely be remembered mostly during anger crises for its emptiness and lack of meaning and also the absence of punctuation that gives it this breathless property which I think it is kinda funny although no one I know would agree but that did not deter me from writing such a crazy idea while going on and on without ever stopping to catch my breath and turning blue for if you try to read it loud you'll find yourself waking up in the emergency room right next to me and thinking that this would never happen to you and was just because you really tried my stupid suggestion and thought that I was just kidding but I wasn't and it is getting progressively difficult to go on because oxygen is very important if we're ever to survive the next few minutes despite the fact that it is getting harder and harder to go on due to the intentional emptiness of it and I can't believe someone would read such a ridiculous meaningless thing for so long unless they were me or that I would ever write such dribbling nonsense unless I was someone else but there you have it and life is full of surprises after all so I bet you also didn't guess you'd be caught reading this and being unable to help yourself during this odd Monty-Python's-Zen-Twilight-Zone moment and that there must surely be a million and two things more important to do than to read an endless sentence that seems to go on and on forever although I can't really come up with a good example right now because my head is spinning and I'm dangerously close to some medical limit of the human body but it's great that I could hold on for so long because now I can proudly say that…

*FAINT*

MY PERSONAL HEROES - NIETZSCHE

Friedrich Nietzsche (1844 -1900), the famous German gangster philosopher who had God murdered the moment he found out that although his elderly mother and his ugly sister were both going to Heaven someday (his greedy shameless sister was probably going straight to Hell for posing as a paid nurse to her brother when, in truth, she had been doing it all along for free), his cute cat wasn't and that really made him snap.
Not that he petted a cat. Actually he hated the damned parasites and was severely allergic to them.

In a paradoxical sense, I also have a cat which is not really mine (it's my neighbours), but insists on crawling surreptitiously and uninvited into my house most of the time so I feel obliged to feed him (cats adopt people nowadays or, at least in my experience, me). My charming and observant neighbours have, on occasion, called the police on me to retrieve the cat from my house (after it had been gone for a week…). Therefore, I understand Nietzsche's divine homicidal tendencies in a very profound and alternative manner.

Well, but to Nietzsche this prejudice against cats (or any form of life that doesn't have a soul, i.e., unable to contribute very generously with land or gold to the Church) disturbed him gravely. If this great western thinker did ever decide to get a cat (and call it "Timmy"), it just wasn't fair that God wouldn't stubbornly allow fluffy Timmy to do its thing in the Gardens of Eden (instead of the expensive 19th century couch). This was a matter of principle (and wasted cat food) and that's what I admire him for. If I ever grow up, I'll pet my own cat and name him "Timmy".

This respect for animals also reoccurred by the end of his life. Dramatically, Nietzsche's sickness got progressively worse in his last eleven years and madness crept into his mind. During this late period, rumour has it he was once seen in an Italian public square protecting a horse from being whipped by embracing it around the neck; and, with tears in his eyes, he begged the horse to forgive the crimes of Humanity (and certain politicians) against their enslaved brothers: the animals.
Apparently the disease also affected his eyesight as some onlookers also report him embracing the two policemen, who came to take him away, with the same sort of speech.

To this day, however, it is unknown if the domesticated quadruped (i.e. the animal, also known simply as "horse", or "Mr. Ed") bothered to answer him. Some eminent members of the philosophical community have argued that asking a question while gripping the throat of our interlocutor to the point of strangulation may prove difficult for him to answer.
Other renowned scholars, however, strongly disagree and think that he could have asked nicely while discreetly waving a bag of sweets.

Furthermore, experts couldn't gather a consensus on whether he should have posed this important symbolic question to a different animal instead, and popular academic suggestions include "to one that wasn't being whipped at that exact moment". This controversy promises to endure for many years as it so often happens with much of Nietzsche's work for its ambiguous nature tends to frustrate serious attempts of analysis.

A few days after this episode, he wrote a couple of short letters to some of his friends - known as "Madness Letters" - in a desperate attempt to spread the disease that plagued him and thus have some card-playing company at the mental clinic's playground, but to no avail. The director of the Clinic, Dr. Otto Binswanger, and conservative art historian Julius Langbehn (who was attempting to cure Nietzsche's illness with crayons), got hold of the notes and sent some of them as a replacement for their huge gambling bills.

Despite a tremendous difficult life, he managed to create, among other beautiful tributes to the lost art of thinking, the ambiguous and poetic "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" which is by far my favourite book; the most inspiring of them all and the most unreachable.

I'm usually a fast reader in what concerns much more light weighted material, such as novels (and comic books), but while reading this one I just had to go back three pages or so on a regular basis and pause to ponder on the new dense ideas it gave me (and how unfair it was that I didn't got to write them first). I would frequently just hold the book, let my fuelled mind wander into the deep space of amazing thoughts and dwell there for a while (some, like me, say I never came back).

Zarathustra is the book's extraordinary central figure who makes brave philosophical speeches (when he's sure that either no one can hear him or are just way too far to catch him).

Nietzsche stole the character of Zarathustra from that of the prophet of Zoroastrianism, better known as "Zoroaster", dated around the 10th century BCE. "The copyright had expired…" he later confessed to Richard Wagner with whom he maintained a close friendship that ended abruptly with the argument of who's time it was to pay for the dinner as both thought it was their own turn. The manager at the restaurant was happy to be paid twice for the same meal.

One of the book's most impressive key ideas is the "Eternal Recurrence" or "Eternal Return" concept which put into abstract terms means that I'll be beaten up again by a certain 5th grade classmate forever. I find this odd idea of circular time very reassuring and to give me some comfort during difficult times (especially because I had gotten taller by the 7th grade and knew precisely where he lived).

I was first drawn to the obsessive reading of Nietzsche, because he has such a brilliant name. I particularly love the "TZSCH" consonant cluster and once tried to change my name to "Aletzschandre" (notice its intellectual shine now) and made official arrangements for it to happen. The shallow people at the register office however, failed to take me seriously and replied something - which I can't exactly recall - around the subtle and intricate concepts of "get lost" followed immediately by "next, please".

As I'm not one who easily shuns from hopeless lost causes (unless I'm invited to a party), I was further introduced to the ever so popular bureaucratic concept of "call security" when, on the very next day, I chained myself to the office plant (a bonsai-like palm tree) and swallowed the key. I was forced to give up a week later because I could no longer afford that ridiculous rent.
I brought the plant as a souvenir and now carry it everywhere I go as I'm still waiting for the key to end her troubled relationship with my digestive system.

You can never get anything done in this country, unless you do it yourself. So I decided to forge my ID card (with a correction pen) and only answer by the name I'd chosen. I abandoned the whole idea while crossing a street. It's funny how the simple crossing of a street can make you change your mind on certain issues, especially if you got run over by a small truck. And also if your friends tried to warn you about the approaching menace by shouting: "Look out! Aletzschandre!". Unfortunately, I thought they were calling someone else and paid no attention to them.

I had plenty of time to reflect about this at the Hospital where I learned that I had made it into next year's edition of Guinness World Records ("Most Broken Bones Survivor" category). I am also now a case study for the medical science of Osteology for some mysterious reason.

I wish to take this opportunity to acknowledge the kind doctors who helped me with undying and unconditional love by breaking the remainder of the bones I needed to get the record.

Thank you all! I'll never forget you guys (or where you live...).