Why does Timmy lie?

About three hundred years ago, Tim Smith was walking down the street. His shoes, while still in fair condition, were slightly worn, the leather being scratched in a few spots.

The cobbler, Joe Smith, stopped Tim and said, “Oi, ther’ Tim, hows about a noo pair o’ shoes fer ya? I make ‘t best in all ‘t land.”

Tim replied, “Oi Joe, you know I gots quite the ‘and meself at fixin’ shoes, n I done fixed these up twice al’eady. I do reckon they be lastin’ ’bout two more fixins ‘fore I must needs see the likes uh you!”

Joe, saddened by Tim’s statement, quieted down and tried to sell shoes to some other passerby. Back in Joe and Tim’s time, money was a rare and precious thing. The vast majority of people maintained their own homes, clothing, food supply, simply because people could not afford to not have those simple skills. Because of this, there was little leisure time. Leisure was getting wasted off rye after 18 hours of working on a farm, or in a shop, or later, in a factory.

Today, Tim’s descendant Timmy has more leisure time than Tim Smith could ever dream of. Timmy works eight hours a day, and the rest is up to him. Timmy spends this extra time on the internet, or playing video games, or reading random articles.

But unlike Tim, Timmy is dependent upon Giant for his food, upon Nike for his shoes,  upon Target for his clothes, Men’s Warehouse for his suit, Wells Fargo for his house, Ford for his car, Verizon for his internet connection, Seagate, ASUS, Microsoft, and Intel for his computer, Starbucks for his job, and upon so many more different companies for so many different things, only less than a handful of which are necessary for him to live.

Why does Timmy do this to himself?

Why does Timmy compete with his neighbors to see who can get the fastest car? Only the car manufacturer can benefit. Perhaps his neighbor works for Ford, and keeps tricking Timmy into buying more expensive vehicles.

Why does Timmy pay for the highest connection speed? What difference is it that the web page loads thirty seconds faster?

Why does Timmy drive so fast on the highway? Is his destination that important, that he has to reach it five minutes sooner?

Why did Timmy pay five hundred thousand for a house that only he will live in?

 

Someone please tell me. Please. Please tell me from where this ingrained notion of competition originates, where the idea comes from that if you’re not more successful than your neighbor, then you’re a failure.

Can’t we all just chill out?

the bingman is hate

Jim Bean was never a bad guy.

He was a bingman. Do you know what a bingman is?

A bingman is is a person who likes to eat pie. What is a person who likes to eat pie?

A person who likes to eat pie is a bingman is and Jim Bean is a bingman is is a person who likes to eat pie.

Where do you stand on this issue? What is the issue? The issue is the bingman is. What to do with him? Shall we put him in the corner? Have his friends get all together, and talk about him as he sits in his cage? They can all discuss how sad it is that he must live there, forsaken as he is by the people of his society.

Oh! Oh! Then we may gather his enemies, everyone whom he has hated most throughout his life, everyone who has wronged him in some way, and get all of them together and have them point and laugh at the bingman is in his cage. They can eat pie, too. That might really put him in his own, desperate place where even the evil spirits refuse to roam.

Who are the evil spirits? They are the ones who the ones that the bingman is hates hates the most. Who does the bingman is hate hate the most? The bingman is hate hates the evil spirits the most because the bingman is hate does not like pie. In fact, he likes to watch pie burn in his back yard on a pile of small twigs, intertwined with poison ivy and hate.

Then he goes inside, back to his corner, back to the wall, back to that same dreary place that he knows as his sad, lonely home. The spiders and the dust shall crawl over his skin, until the museum curators thousands of years from now study his mummified form.

I don’t know….

He was a furry dressed in a lion suit with blood on his claws.

“Hey,” Tom said to him. “What’s that blood from?”

“Oh, uh…” Mike starts to say, but interrupts himself with a long scratch of his balls. Blood smears across the crotch of his pants. “That’s, uh…from when I killed a man earlier.” He yawned and sipped a sip of his ale. “I ate him.”

“Oh, cool,” Tom said. He was dressed in a seal suit. A seal whose face was bruised and skin was the color of stone. “I like to eat fish, though.”