In the Wabe

Imagine that you find yourself at a picnic on a prairie, faced with the choice between dining on a either horse shit or cow shit. Two organizers advocate for each and you are convinced that the cow shit should be served due to some negligible nutritional content. A vote is held, but just as the election is arranged, a man–let’s call him Ralph–warns that no matter how you vote, you’ll be eating a shit sandwich. He suggests you vote to abandon the picnic and head down the road for fried chicken.

The vote is held and your choice fails.

Now, is it the fault of Ralph or the will of a bunch or shitheads that you find yourself eating crap?

One cannot say he has shared a slice of pizza by merely giving the crust.

What fish you catch may depend largely on what bait you use.

It’s a lot easier to swallow a load of shit when you know that doing so will lead to some benefit.

To have the a case of the Plimptons is much like having the flu, but instead of feeling compelled to vomit, one feels he must put himself into unusual situations and document them with the intent that he’ll one day transform the notes into a great work of narrative.

Upon walking through a park and observing a sculpture formed by great skill, it does not diminish the artistry to see the work is covered in pigeon shit.

You may place an eagle in the chicken coop, but that does not make it an eagle’s nest, nor do the chickens become eagles.