Well, Daddy, I used to believe that artists went crazy in the process of creating the beautiful works of art that kept society sane. Nowadays, though, artists make intentionally ugly art that's only supposed to reflect society rather than inspire it. So I guess we're all loony together now, loony rats in the shithouse of commercialism.
We are all a little weird. And we like to think that there is always someone weirder. I mean, I am sure some of you are looking at me and thinking, "Well, at least I am not as weird as you," and I am thinking, "Well, at least I am not as weird as the people in the loony bin," and the people in the loony bin are thinking, "Well, at least I am an orange".
We are all a little weird. And we like to think that there is always someone weirder. I mean, I am sure some of you are looking at me and thinking, 'Well, at least I am not as weird as you, ' and I am thinking, 'Well, at least I am not as weird as the people in the loony bin, ' and the people in the loony bin are thinking, 'Well, at least I am an orange'.
For many of us, the hospital was as much a refuge as it was a prison. Though we were cut off from the world and all the trouble we enjoyed stirring up out there, we were also cut off from the demands and expectations that had driven us crazy. What could be expected of us now that we were stowed away in a loony bin?
Ryan Stout, a straight-arrow-looking kind of guy, shocks the crowd into laughter with his inventive interplay between innocence and a jarringly twisted point of view. He goes from loony to weirdly logical. With him, it's more than clever writing; his comedy is based on clear and clever thinking.
And all that weirdness isn't just going on outside. It's in you too, right now, growing in the dark like magic mushrooms. Call it the Thing in the Cellar. Call it the Blow Lunch Factor. Call it the Loony Tunes File. I think of it as my private dinosaur, huge, slimy, and mindless, stumbling around in the stinking swamp of my subconscious, never finding a tar pit big enough to hold it.
That's a Planeswalker demon.' Dante slumped into the seat behind her. 'You aren't crazy.' Meg slid him a bemused glance. 'I thought we'd settled that a few weeks back.''Nope, ' he said, shaking his head. 'I was still certain you were loony.''Then why have you been helping me?''I don't know if you've noticed, sweetheart, but you have fabulous tits, ' Dante said with a sigh. 'I figured once you gave up on the whole idea of being queen of the faery world, you might consider sleeping with me. Now I see that demons are real. I'm going to church tomorrow.
I'm accustomed to being top man. I been a bull goose catskinner for every gyppo logging operation in the Northwest and bull goose gambler all the way from Korea, was even bull goose pea weeder on that pea farm at Pendleton - so I figure if I'm bound to be a loony, then I'm bound to be a stompdown dadgum good one.
WHAT THE FRIG MAKES YOU FRIGGERS WANT TO FRIG WITH THIS? NOW YOU FOOLS GOT ME LIVING WITH THIS MENTAL FIST THAT I WEAR WITH KNUCKLEDUSTERS, TAKING OUT THESE FROGS IN THEIR THREE BY THREE, FIVE BY FIVE HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE THIS LEFT HANDED LOONY TOONY VOTOONY, DANCEGATE PRESSURE HEADING THROUGH THE BACK DOOR STRAIGHT TO THE BAR THEN I'M GONNA GET ME SOME FIREWATER THEN I'M GONNA SCOPE OUT A YOUNG FINE DAUGHTER AH YES, ITS MY WAYWARD NATURE HIP TO A CAPER, SOON TO HAVE A HOUSE WITH X AMOUNT OF ACRE IT GOES
Oh, poor baby, ' she said, mimicking his drawl. 'Whew. You're back. There was this other Susie here a minute ago, and she was really nice to me. She scared the shit out of me.' She laughed. 'They locked her back up in the loony bin.' 'Good, because there's only one Susie for me-the one who calls me on my crap and doesn't let me get away with jack shit. That's the Susie I need. That's the Susie I've missed coming home to over the last year.' He kissed her. 'And that's the Susie who's going to leave a gaping hole in my heart and my life if she doesn't give me another chance.
Whenever a state or an individual cited 'insufficient funds' as an excuse for neglecting this important thing or that, it was indicative of the extent to which reality had been distorted by the abstract lens of wealth. During periods of so-called economic depression, for example, societies suffered for want of all manner of essential goods, yet investigation almost invariably disclosed that there were plenty of goods available. Plenty of coal in the ground, corn in the fields, wool on the sheep. What was missing was not materials but an abstract unit of measurement called 'money.' It was akin to a starving woman with a sweet tooth lamenting that she couldn't bake a cake because she didn't have any ounces. She had butter, flour, eggs, milk, and sugar, she just didn't have any ounces, any pinches, any pints. The loony legacy of money was that the arithmetic by which things were measured had become more valuable than the things themselves.
Lord Cut-Glass, in his kitchen full of time, squats down alone to a dogdish, marked Fido, of peppery fish-scraps and listens to the voices of his sixty-six clocks, one for each year of his loony age, and watches, with love, their black-and-white moony loudlipped faces tocking the earth away: slow clocks, quick clocks, pendulumed heart-knocks, china, alarm, grandfather, cuckoo; clocks shaped like Noah's whirring Ark, clocks that bicker in marble ships, clocks in the wombs of glass women, hourglass chimers, tu-wit-tuwoo clocks, clocks that pluck tunes, Vesuvius clocks all black bells and lava, Niagara clocks that cataract their ticks, old time weeping clocks with ebony beards, clocks with no hands for ever drumming out time without ever knowing what time it is. His sixty-six singers are all set at different hours. Lord Cut-Glass lives in a house and a life at siege. Any minute or dark day now, the unknown enemy will loot and savage downhill, but they will not catch him napping. Sixty-six different times in his fish-slimy kitchen ping, strike, tick, chime, and tock.
Situations produce vibrations. Negative, potentially harmful situations emit slow vibrations. Positive, potentially life-enhancing situations emit quick vibrations. As these vibrations impact on your energy field they produce either resonance or dissonance in your lower and middle tantiens (psychic power stations) depending on your own vibratory rate at the time. When you psychic field force is strong and your vibratory rate is fast, therefore, you will draw only positive situations to you. When you mind is quiet enough and your attention is on the moment, you will literally hear the dissonance in your belly and chest like an alarm bell going off, urging you from deep within your body to move in such and such a direction. Always follow it. At times these urges may come to you in the form of internally spoken dialogue with your higher self, spirit guide, guardian angel, alien intelligence, however you see the owner of the 'still, small voice within.' This form of dialogue can be entertaining and reassuring but is best not overindulged in as, in the extreme; it tends to lead to the loony bin. At times you may receive your messages from 'Indian signs', such as slogans on passing trucks or cloud formations in the sky. This is also best kept in moderation, to avoid seeing signs in everything and becoming terribly confused. Just let it happen when it happens and don't try looking for it.