Asking if an observed behavior is due to nature or nurture is like asking whether the percussion sounds we hear in the distance are produced by a drummer or the drum.

It’s a silly question because, on their own, neither one makes any noise.

Only if we were to hear distinct sounds on different occasions could we legitimately ask if the difference was owing to a change in the drummer or the instrument.

Hans Kummer

We have a biological fear of social isolation.

Considerably subtler and more insidious than ostracism, isolation is truly damaging to humans both psychologically and physically. It leads to poor cognitive performance, elevated stress, fragmented sleep, depression, and increased vigilance surrounding potential threats.

When we’re part of a large group, we feel connected to a network that’s stronger than any one individual. This is a mutually beneficial arrangement: the majority’s power protects us and feels more like our own, while our motivation to conform grows over time, reinforcing the influence and reach of the group.

Because this feeling of power stimulates our reward system, our brains latch onto it hungrily, like a baby to its pacifier. The numerical advantage of the majority also gives us the satisfaction of apparent supremacy and influence.

Our citadel is fortified.

The problem is that this particular combination—our fear of isolation plus the benefits of being in the majority—heavily incentivizes us to go with whatever we perceive to be the consensus.

Most of us will wait to see which way the numbers are going. Once that direction is clear, we join the larger number of fish and reap the benefits: we avoid isolation, and we share in all the rewards of membership in the most popular group.

Todd Rose, Collective Illusions

Humanity has unquestionably one really effective weapon—laughter.

Against the assault of laughter nothing can stand.

Mark Twain

Now I know somethin bout idiots.

Probly the only thing I do know bout, but I done read up on em—all the way from that Doy-chee-eveskie guy’s idiot, to King Lear’s fool, an Faulkner’s idiot, Benjie, an even ole Boo Radley in To Kill A Mockingbird—now he was a serious idiot. The one I like best tho is ole Lennie in Of Mice And Men.

Mos of them writer fellers got it straight—cause their idiots always smarter than people give em credit for.

Hell, I’d agree with that.

Any idiot would. Hee Hee.

Forrest Gump

I think stupid thoughts. Then I think them again.

I am a joke machine set on automatic, generating ridiculousness.

If I knew how, I would stanch the flow; I would create a space in which a dignified existence were possible, in which I could breathe.

But it does not seem to be possible; I do not exist.

I am a distraction.

Charlie Kaufman, Antkind

Slowly walkin down the hall
Faster than a cannonball
Where were you while we were getting high?

Oasis, Champagne Supernova

Midst Music Mesa’s many marvels, meet our merry maestros of misfitting and mischief-manufacturing musing most mindfully and manifesting multitudinous multi-dude-inous mirth-making, mad-mingling, mayhem-materializing, mind-mashing, and mockery-masterminding (maybe madness masked most (trans)mutedly?)—mmm…melodically, methodically, maniacally…

Meanwhile, an emerging converging diverging jam session, well, emerges converges diverges as currents flow—directly, indirectly, alternatingly—every which-where-when-what-why way, so help us Gorp…

Mystic misty mountain melodies and memories—membered, dis-membered, and re-remembered—materialize, metamorphize, mightymetamorphinize, meta-lionize, metal-ionize, met-a-lion-eyes, mystify, meld, mirror, mock, mist-ify…

Hunter: Good news is rare these days, and every glittering ounce of it should be cherished and hoarded and worshipped and fondled like a priceless diamond.

Ed: Good news—Hayduke lives!

P Willy: Hey—Dude lives!

Brain: Boom goes the dynamite!

Brent: Are you having a laugh? Are we—having a laugh?!

Franny: You think this is fun and games?

Janet: It’s not funny, you’re right—it’s art, grow up!

Karl: Okay, we proceed—but only if there is no funny schtuff.

Dude: Yeah, yeah—

Karl: So no funny schtuff—okay?

Dude: Just tell me where the fuck you want us to go.

That was the sign, man.

Ace: I saw the sign!

And it opened up my eyes—I saw the sign, dude.

Jeez, life is demanding, without understanding.

Dude: Well, you know, that’s just like—

Nigel: It’s very very special because, if you can see—

Marty: Yeah—

Nigel: The numbers all go up to 11.

Look, right across the board—11, 11, 11…

Marty: Oh, I see—and most amps go up to 10?

Nigel: Exactly.

Marty: Does that mean it’s any louder?

Nigel: Well it’s one louder, innit?

Newscaster: I’m not wearing any pants—film at 11.

Commercial: Gas Plus—actually gives you gas!

For those times when you feel like being the joker.

Bung: Pfffffft fraap brap brap…

Turd: Yeah, that’s right, Turd Ferguson—it’s a funny name!

Brain: To those about to rock—we salute you!

Dale: Hey man—did you touch my bongos?

Brennan: You crazy, compadre?

How’s about I put my fuzzy-wuzzy boy-ball-bag on your bongos their bud—mmmkay brocus-pocus?

Dale: If you even went near my bingo-bango-bongos natcho-muchacho, I will fling ape-ding-dang-dong-dung into all your orificial orifice holes—you hear me bro-he-hi-ho-hum-bo?!

¡¿Comprende compadre?!

Brennan: I didn’t touch your bing-bang-bong-bung bongos!

Feynman: The Dude said my bongoing was “too intellectual”—his is much more pulsating, yeah groovy baby!

Matthew: Alright, alright, alright…

Dale: I warned you, Feynman—there’s one rule around here, and you broke it!

Feynman: Well then—are we bon-going to do this or what, you Beelzebub-bong-bonehead?

Dale: Surely you’re joking, Mr. Feynman!

Fine man? Fine, man!

Maybe fine for you, but find not fine for me, man!

Feynman: Welp you’ve bon-gone and rang the bong-gong bell now, you bogo-bucko-bozo-bossanogo.

You can’t go and unbingo-bango-bongo-bung that particular bell once it’s been ringo-rango-rongo-rung, bung-holy-o.

The Bong! doesn’t go back in the bell—back in the bell’s end, as it were, you bell-end—so no saved by the bell back to school for you, you loco bucking bro-chach-o buckaroo.

And surely you didn’t just dare call me Shirley surly, you hurly-burly wordy-birdy!

Behold! I am Become Bong-os, Basher of Brain-os!

Animalistic howling ensues as fires blaze and bongos and brainos blast and bash blaringly and baringly—inner, outer, literal, metaphorical, rhetorical—in and out rhythmically, repeatedly, orgiastically, through all the -oricals and oracles in all (y)our glory-or-eeyore-ious orificial glory (w)holes, dear reader.

Amen.