controlling one's own hands, scientifc rigor, free choice, the unmoved mover, dibbles at the charity dinner.

What if we been plying and putting our neck to the yoke going in the wrong direction?

What if we redirected some of resources towards something more positive--something uniting--something beneficial for all?  What if the company didn't just pay me in stock?

We need to submit this to the rigors of scientific inquiry.

Ryan Holliday talks of the George Costanza "Reverse-Decision" or Inverse decision making paradigm: i.e., just do the opposite.  That is, do the opposite of your natural instinct, because obviously, and he looked back on past choices, he had always seemed wrong before.  In a written work, the strategy paid off surprisingly well, as Jerry had made a habit of otherwise referring to George as "Biff", the classic American fiddle-dud.

Who the f*ck just laughed?  Who was that?  I'm gonna fire whoever that was--presumptuous little prick.

Think of the energy we waste on the non-essential.  Even I, somewhat of a shaman in internet terms, wasting my time, talent, treasure on stupid things, supporting an indolent, irrelevant and unproductive lifestyle.

Oh how we are made to trip and tumble over the non-essential: be it another updated iPhone or something, a tv with the latest features, something they told us was essential, and we find, it was really just a horrible, time-killing distraction, as per yesterday's world-devouring paradox.

Woe to the republic if our better angels fall to disuse: why not something helpful to our fellows, then?  Why not something that advances the cause of hope, peace, freedom, justice and finally, ultimately, love of our human race, the animals, and the very earth that torments us.

What are we?  Bojangled Nashville shoes?  Farty, Farty, Missed the Party?

You will service us.

I tell my right hand, pained somewhat, voice low like Johnny Cash, "you mind me, now" and it fidgets at first, unsure of this new course, this new thing, but I will it, as much as it is a part of me, starfish tipple flong, I will it.

He had snorted No-Doz, and with his arm hidden inside his shirtsleeve, he pretended to listen, but all the while, something was niggling, monolithic, it left an impression in the dismal otherwise staid simple soils of his mind, it had weight--specific gravity--density, mass, and other attributes, and the very dissipation seemed like victory, not that he wasted it, but that he had it at all: that was the metric, it added to his lifetime totals, even though it was gone in mere hours--he needed more orange juice and pickles--perpetual little machine, it precipitated its own time like an overturned truckload of hammers, peppering a troupe of school children as the truck overturned onto the sidewalk, killing some, and horribly wounding others--the thought came and fun was fun, after all, and it was all, palms together, face upturned toward the stars, asking for, petitioning, and then the one and done when it came--just like when the government minted a Trillion dollar coin--done was done and for other dubious reasons, the backwater turned green, his toenails had black under them, and they were saying his sugar was way off.

And maybe that's all it was.  His blood glucose was "way off".

Maybe, and he didn't even entertain it actively in his imagination, that one correction might just set it all going in the right direction: that one simple, singular thing.  And he snotted.

Granules in it.

That one thing.

He lifted a finger, raised that finger, and seemingly pointed, straight-up, towards God, the very self-thinking thought, the Prime Mover, the unMoved Mover, the impetus, the Chief Good, in whom was no darkness at all, and I was thinking, with my right hand under control, and my life suddenly going to the good, better-off and all, I could work on my left hand, as was said, "Left Hand Of The Devil", which could have been the title of my old western screenplay, a mash-up of the Street Fighter, with martial arts, and old cowboy stuff, a man could get punched in his face before he drew his pistol, and the thing, they were cheering him on to draw, even as he got beaten down, and it turned out: the beater?  Step Dad.

"I can draw with my left hand just as good as my right."

You know what they were doing?  Karenning.  They wanted a Sirloin, medium, 14 ounce, a slight char which called forth the senses, and some mushroom gravy, home cut fries, and a whole thing of yeast bread.  And we're saying that it was kind of uncouth to demand of a free meal, all the trimmings, why, luxury, from a free meal, paid for by the church.  And myself, suddenly free-handed, couldve eaten it all, and used both hands.

All this talk about hands.  Lady fingers and cake frosting.