Manifestos For Living
|Mister Fun returns from his not entirely self-imposed exile resulting from dog fighting charges,
having first spent a little quality time hiking the Appalachian Trail with his ultra hot Brazilian
mistress, whom he has been assured by her mentor Fredo is of the legal age of consent,
somewhere. And if you can’t be of legal age somewhere along the Appalachian Trail, where can
you be of legal consent age? The stars now aligned, his pooper pooped, his not entirely
voluntary testimony having been given and his release from the rather inconvenient commitment
to the Witness Protection Program having been secured, now is the time for that vassal of
righteousness Mister Fun to renew his ongoing symposium on the fine art of living fine. Behold,
he moves—which is a distinct change of pace. With unsteady steps and stale bacon breath,
much like a new born soft shell turtle, he commences to profess his profession. Which is not only
a change of pace but also distinctly superior to doing the opposite, except for the stale bacon
breath part. Mister Fun continues to support the pork industry in all of its manifestations,
although he isn’t entirely sure what a hog belly is even though his broker has warned that he may
have to accept delivery on forty boxcars full of such unless certain margins are paid up in full
immediately. In keeping with his customer-focused approach to life-long learning and needless
self-inflicted suffering, Mister Fun has magnanimously become emotionally pre-prepared to offer
YOU, the generals of the public and people he can innocently pass notes to while in the stall of a
public airport restroom, be they a general or an airman or even an admiral (they all say that) a
unique once in a lifetime opportunity to purchase or perhaps swap for cash said received pork
bellies along with a potpourri of credit default swaps he has previously become the repository of.
Remember, a swap is a swap is a swap and, all things being equal inasmuch as most non
metaphysical constructs are made of matter, dust being dust, Misters Fun’s willingness to offer
generous terms pervades every crevice of his being, conditioned exclusively on the receptive
party’s pre-preparedness to swap a reasonably universal matter equivalent, as long as its cash.
Lots of it. This offer will not be repeated this minute unless the urge strikes. Failing the success
of that key initiative, Mister Fun is going to have to think of something else. Pronto.
|We should all keep in mind that fire is
a natural part of the natural world and
should be revered in its
wholesomeness regardless of its
perhaps suddenness or expanding
prevalence. Need we be reminded that
ancient man worshipped fire as a god.
That said, however, you can have too
much of a good thing. Mister Fun is
well on record as stating that
moderation is the key to success in
everything and any of his utterances
seemingly to the contrary, such as “I
like my universe nice and toasty!”
should be viewed as taken out of
context and without the consent of
counsel, made as they were during a
time of duress, potential temporary
impairment and arrest. Only the small
minded think in terms of retribution.
Narrow oriented nabobs obsess on the
concepts of remuneration, banishment
and other needless permutations of
legal flagellation despite the
DEMONSTRATED FACT that not a
one of the measures Mister Fun’s
accusers’ dim imaginations might
conjure will bring back into the living
world a sole crispy rabbit or balsa pine
rendered into smoky carbon. AND
THAT CANNOT BE REFUTED!
|Mister Fun is a very good driver, sober.
|Mister Fun's Public Defender cried a lot.
|She was not so much a captive as she was captivated.