Thursday, May 04, 2006


As finals beset me like a nest of wronged hornets, and the week clings to me like a soaked t-shirt, I don't think I'll manage to post much/anything. So, for the next week-to-two-weeks, FIND YOUR JOLLIES ELSEWHERE, SICKO, I'M NOT YOUR CYMBAL-PLAYING MECHANO-MONKEY.

I'll leave you with a poem by George Santayana, one of my favorites (both poet and poem), even relevant to some degree in these next hectic days:

So I couldn't get the poem to properly indent. Blogger just passed pharmacysts on my "List of Things that Make me Blink Asynchronously out of Rage." So, for the poem, just go here. Or, if your Blogger, just go to here.

To tie together the loose ends on this blog before I make my exit, here is Edmund Burke on pharmacysts:

"Naturally, men so formed and finished are the first gifts of Providence to the world. But when they have once thrown off the fear of God, which was in all ages too often the case, and the fear of man, which is now the case, and when in that state they come to understand one another, and to act in corps, a more dreadful calamity cannot arise out of hell to scourge mankind. Nothing can be conceived more hard than the heart of a thoroughbred [pharmacyst]. It comes nearer to the cold malignity of a wicked spirit than to the frailty and passion of a man. It is like that of the Principle of Evil himself, incorporeal, pure, unmixed, dephlegmated, defecated evil. It is no easy operation to eradicate humanity from the human breast."

Well, uh, he might not have exactly used the word "pharmacyst," but I'm pretty sure that's what he was driving towards.


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