One day one son whined, “Why don’t you ever tell me any fairy tales, or bed-time stories?”
And the old man exploded, “What the hell you think I’ve been doing for the last thirty five years!”
On one planet, the creatures became so enamored of altering their brain chemistry via botanical means rather than verbally, or socially, that they decided they had a “drug problem,” and to counteract it, they attempted to eradicate all psychedelic plants from their world, which proved impossible.
On another planet, the beings also fell into what they too call a “drug problem,” and some of their leaders declared that the only possible solution was to make the use of such chemicals legal, and acceptable, but this proved to divide the people into conflicting camps of pro and con, and nothing was actually ever accomplished.
A third world, hearing of their neighbors’ similar problem, and failures to deal with it, conquered their “drug problem” by officially removing the word “problem” from their vocabulary.
(New Notions To Live By On One Little Planet:
“If you can’t spell a word – to hell with it.”)
In a more civilized future of the Revolutionist, if your neighbors are too noisy, or the least bit annoying – KILL ‘EM.
First brother says, “Poetry suggests metaphor.”
The second brother says, “Metaphor suggests potential.”
And the last brother says, “What this country needs is a good five cent suggestion box.”