Bizarro Quotes

After all, we're currently living in a Bizarro society where teenagers are technology-obsessed, where the biggest sellers in every bookstores are fantasy novels about a boy wizard, and the blockbuster hit movies are all full of hobbits and elves or 1960s spandex superheroes. You don't have to go to a Star Trek convention to find geeks anymore. Today, almost everyone is an obsessive, well-informed aficionado of something. Pick your cult: there are food geeks and fashion geeks and Desperate Housewives geeks and David Mamet geeks and fantasy sports geeks. The list is endless. And since everyone today is some kind of trivia geek or other, there's not even a stigma anymore. Trivia is mainstream. "Nerd" is the new "cool.

Just because she likes the same bizarro crap you do doesn’t mean she’s your soul mate.” —500 Days of Summer

For the first time, I smelled her. I can't describe the smell. Flowery, yet somehow musty, like a beautiful woman with the soul of an old book.

Being part of  Christ’s bizarro kingdom looks more like being thirsty and having someone you don’t even like give you water than it looks like polishing your crown.

Cualquiera que hubiera amado de verdad alguna vez sabía que el amor era capaz de inspirar desde un acto tan simple como cortar unas hermosas flores para la mujer amada, hasta uno tan bizarro como dar la vida por ella.

FIESTA OR DEATH!!!

I’m alive; I’m not gonna try eating your ass, okay? Don’t shoot!” “What… Eat my ASS?” “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.

She whipped her tentacles away from his fingers decapitating the dead lobster-dog and its body fell from the ceiling fan.

The only thing I could figure was most people were so fucking self-righteous they liked to destroy others’ wills so they felt like their own petty lives had some sense of purpose.

So you're like a ... an amateur sleuth?" "God no. I'm more like the hapless guys in those film-noir flicks we used to watch. I keep getting tangled up in bizarro events." "Oh yes?” His eyes lit with enthusiasm. I was speaking his language now. “Guy Pearce in L.A. Confidential or William Hurt in Body Heat?" "I was thinking more like Woody Allen in Play It Again, Sam.

Tell me I can marry Anne Frank's skeleton.

The girl slid into the back seat of the town car, tugging at the hem of her dress like she was afraid she might leave a stain on the upholstery.

My thinking-of-kitties smile!

At every college I went to—every single one—at least one teacher of color broke down in tears describing their struggle to advocate for their students of color in such a hostile environment. Higher education is not the racial utopia that Republicans are scared of. It is not some bizarro world where students of color wield power over white students and faculty. It is a white supremacist system at its core, like all our other systems are.

Stuey was in heaven, but he wished that he were in hell.

Brahman and I are buddies.

You can make contact with people all day but it only seems fulfilling when it’s with someone you truly enjoy.

TERROR MAN. TERROR FACE. TERROR CLOWN. TERROR CHILD. TERROR MAN. TERROR FACE. TERROR CLOWN. TERROR CHILD.

«Bizarro» significa «valiente, generoso, lúcido». Sin embargo, su uso es más común como «raro» o «extravagante», pero es un error.

Enquanto o bizarro mundo continua a girar - José Vieira de Lima

Imagine a world where you could gain more knowledge by reading fewer books, see more of the world by minimizing travel and get more fit by doing less exercise. Certainly, a world where doing less gets you more is highly inconsistent with much of our lived experience, but is just the way Wall Street Bizarro World operates. If we are to learn to live in WSBW (and we must), one of the primary lessons to be learned is to do less than we think we should.

Para mim cada poema é um mundo próprio, um habitat bizarro de memórias, pessoas, sentimentos, conclusões. Cada verso é um retrato, um objecto precioso, um pedaço que recolho do mundo e visto com palavras. Devolver essas palavras aos seus bizarros habitats fez-se mais que um desafio, uma vontade: a de ver os meus poemas com outros olhos, e aí descobri-los como pela primeira vez. Um projecto (imagem d'escrita) que me mostrou a poesia sem palavras, tal como ela é...

Le decíamos Cantinflas porque se llamaba Mario Moreno. Pero no tenía nada de cómico, ni tampoco era amistoso. Era un sicario de barrio, de los peores que hay, por seis latas de cerveza te traía la cabeza de quien quisieras, y por algo de dinero extra se la enviaba a alguien más

Alos diputados nunca les ha urgido nada. Viven en un mundo paralelo donde México es un país próspero que no necesita solucionar la desigualdad o la pobreza, ni combatir la impunidad o la corrupción, ni procurar su crecimiento económico o elevar los niveles de educación, ni llamar a cuentas a los funcionarios públicos.

The day Mother Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? killed Father The Outlaw Josey Wales, they were arguing again about the Pre-Reddening game of Major League Baseball.

I consider myself to be pretty normal, in an insane kind of way...

There are many dark corners in the many universes. Don't continue on if you are afraid to explore the dark, brutal and absurd

If I had to sum up my philosophy of fuckness in a few words so I could cram it on a bumper sticker or t-shirt, those were the words I would have chosen: “Fuck it.

Whoever thought gelatin-based gummy candies could be so incredibly erotic?

I wouldn’t touch a one-eyed teratoma like you with a ten-foot totem pole.

Tabula Rasa can make you feel like you’ve taken a train to Bizarro world. I remember my very first night here—and this is goin’ on fifteen years ago—I was takin’ a walk downtown, tryin’ to get a feel for the place. And I’m walkin’ through a construction site—and it was all construction sites back then, you understand—and I come across this hole in the ground, ’bout ten feet in diameter. I look down and I can’t see a bottom, so I pull a quarter out of my pocket and toss it down, and listen for a clink or a splash. Nothin’. Coin just tumbles into the darkness and disappears. So now I’m real curious, and I look around for somethin’ else to throw down there. And teeterin’ right on the edge of the hole is an old refrigerator. So, I circle around and I give it a good kick and it tumbles down into the hole. I hear it bang off the side a few times but once again, there’s no crash, no splash, like it just kept fallin’ forever. It was the strangest thing. So I figure this is the first of this city’s many unknowable mysteries and I start to go on about my way. But then I see the second strange thing—this goat, it goes flying past me, in midair. Like it was fired from a cannon. And now I think I’m losin’ my mind, like maybe it’s not just tobacco in my cigar, if you know what I’m sayin’. So I walk along and I come across a guy sittin’ on the curb and I say, ‘Holy cow, partner, did you see that goat?’ And the fella says, ‘Well, that’s my goat.’ And I say, ‘Well, I hate to tell ya, but I think it’s gone. It took off flyin’.’ And the fella says, ‘That’s impossible. I had him chained to a refrigerator.’” Zoey stared for a moment, then snorted a laugh that almost caused her to choke on her sandwich.

FAT FREE, NONFAT, LOW FAT, LIGHT Only in the bizarro world of food labeling can the terms “fat free,” “zero fat,” “no fat,” and “without fat” not necessarily mean that the product in fact has zero grams of fat. In the world according to the FDA, “zero” means anything from actually zero all the way up to half a gram. By this outlandish arithmetic, four servings of “zero fat” food can actually contain close to two grams of fat.

Acordei com o sol rubro do fim de tarde; foi um dos momentos mais impressionantes de minha vida, o mais bizarro, pois simplesmente já não sabia mais quem era. (...) Não me apavorei; simplesmente eu me sentia como se fosse outra pessoa, um estranho a mim mesmo, e toda a minha existência fora apenas uma vida mal-assombrada, a vida vazia de um fantasma. Eu estava no coração da América, meio caminho andado entre o leste da minha mocidade e o oeste de meus sonhos futuristas, e é provável que tenha sido exatamente por isso que tudo se passou assim, naquele entardecer dourado e insólito.

A hobo walks by in a suit made of today's newspaper. A guy chases him, shouting. "Wait! I haven't read the business section yet!" Oh, the economic news. The most honest, trustworthy, freshest goods you can get—apart from ripe fish. With its gorgeous headlines it shakes out the mirror’s lost reflections: The fountains are lobbying for more water in this pyromaniac city. Buses with electric chairs are running through the streets. Passengers ask for tickets to Heaven, then take their seats. Eyeballs jump out of their smoking skulls. "No littering in the vehicle!" growls the driver, adjusting the hat on his horns.

A flat screen television lowered into view. It showed an animated Islamic documentary that focused mostly on the importance of wearing the proper attire. The final prophet was quoted often, yet absent from the feature. “If this Mohammed guy is so great, why wouldn’t they put him in the cartoon?” Kira wondered.

Yet, despite the snappy repartee and often-witty scripts, West Wing was a remarkably silly program. Has there ever been a group of real White House staffers as admirable and lovable as the West Wing ensemble, that selfless, high-minded, public-spirited, fundamentally decent pack of . . . political operators? Sorkin’s White House existed in a Bizarro World where the Oval Office is apparently devoid of office politics. Fans of the show never saw the sort of infighting, backstabbing, and jockeying for position that appear in real-world accounts of White House life, like George Reedy’s Twilight of the Presidency and John Dean’s Blind Ambition.

La Estela de Luz refleja el país que somos en la segunda década del siglo XXI, un país de muchos fracasos y pocos éxitos, en el que las cosas se hacen al vapor, de manera mediocre, sin planeación; un país de ocurrencias, donde los problemas se resuelven a medias y tarde. Un país que navega a la deriva y que continúa polarizado.

Saímos, com efeito, de uma evolução natural, mas desde que ingressamos no mundo da cultura, as nossas relações com a natureza tornaram-se mediatizadas, misturadas com o 'ruído' ideológico. É porque nos afastamos da natureza que queremos reencontrá-la. Entretanto, não podemos reencontrar a unidade perdida, nem um 'saber reconciliado'. O pensamento humano é algo singular, bizarro, no Univerno; ele não reflete o real, ele o traduz, não reflete o mundo, faz uma representação dele. Não podemos pôr fim a essa alienação, o nosso estranhamento com essa natureza, que é contudo nossa mãe/madrasta. É preciso romper com a visão sobrenatural e insular do homem, mas não podemos romper com nossa situação peninsular e biocultural.

The girl didn't notice that her boyfriend's head had transformed into a big microphone. So when she whispered her secrets into his ear, her words echoed trough the city. In her embarrassment, she ran out of the house to hide somewhere. And what she saw scared her: couples with microphone heads walked the streets hand in hand. What a sad new world this was, where everybody had to learn how to hold back from saying things. Sounds of slammed doors echoued through the city. Apart from this, there was only silence.

Every now and then, a small plane arrives from nowhere – as tiny as the head of a match-stick – it flies around my head, buzzing, like a pesky little fly, then disappears into my ear. Later, it lands on my throbbing heart. Excited tourists get out of the plane, constantly clicking their cameras, watching the narrow chasms open-mouthed. After some time, the pilot tells the passengers to get back on the plane. The storms are unpredictable here, he warns. So the small plane flies out of my ear, and as I watch them leave, I wish I could go with them. But I know that's impossible. My fear of heights keeps me in the deep.

Joan era dura en el exterior, pero tenía una verdadera vulnerabilidad cuando llegabas a conocerla. Casi desde el momento en que me uní a The Runaways, había habido un lazo especial entre nosotras. La gente nos había comenzado a llamar “Sal y Pimienta”, no sólo por los contrastantes colores de cabello, sino porque siempre parecíamos estar juntas. En Joan, encontré una amistad mucho más intensa, y mucho más profunda, de lo que había conocido hasta ese punto en mi vida. Éramos niñas: Joan sólo era un año mayor que yo, y me aferraba más a ella que a cualquiera en la banda, y ella hacía lo mismo conmigo. Cuando pienso en Joan y nuestra relación, todavía puedo sentir un distante temblor por dentro. Nuestra amistad fue un regalo de Dios para mí. Era profunda, y por momentos ella era la única que me mantenía cuerda. Joan era perceptiva. Casi como si pudiera leer mi mente. Dios, cómo necesitaba esa clase de conexión. Especialmente cuando me sentía tan desconectada. Creía en ella, y en el sueño que la había conducido tan lejos. Me sentía segura cuando me quedaba cerca de ella, como si fuera arrastrada por la red de seguridad de su resuelta visión de lo que estábamos haciendo. A veces nos mirábamos y yo sentía un cosquilleo en mi estómago. Su sonrisa era tibia y su actitud de amor a la diversión me hacía olvidar cuán extraño y bizarro este mundo nuevo y loco realmente era. Ella era mi ancla. ¿Cómo explico a una persona que era mi mejor amiga, alguien en quien podía confiar como una hermana, alguien que para mí se volvió una fuerte atracción sexual? Bueno, es fácil. Tan fácil como era estar con ella. Podría dejarlo en que tuve momentos con una amiga que aún hoy me hacen temblar. Y fueron algunos de los momentos más satisfactorios de mi joven vida.

Gods do not decide who goes to Heaven or who goes to Hell. That is for the Cosmic Forces to decide. You are as close to being like a God than you ever will be. Gods are the creators and if they are proud of their work they will remain as silent watchers. This isn’t like the ancient times when Gods would interfere in the affairs of man, or whatever creatures they created. They became arrogant and selfish in their deeds, only concerned with their own private agendas and using their creations as tools of blackmail and spite. It got so they were completely shaping the destinies of worlds just to seduce a sibling into practicing explicit acts of intercourse. They were incestuous monstrosities who were given far too many liberties, and they abused the power bestowed upon them. Eventually the Cosmic Forces intervened and limited the powers of the Gods. These days Gods are not born and they do not perform sex. The few that are left are merely prisoners of the Cosmic Forces, free to roam across the Multiverse and create, but unable to indulge in their own egotistical fantasies. They have become tortured souls, much like their creations.

Dependendo do humor de cada dia, podia soar folclórico, bizarro, sórdido, deprimente. Às vezes Pedro Almodóvar, às vezes Manuel Puig. Mas naquela noite eu estava exausto demais para achar qualquer coisa. Parecia pior, parecia real.

Without a god to judge him, sucking a Crocoduck was not a sin, but a celebration of life.

Si Kafka hubiera nacido en México, hubiera sido un escritor costumbrista”.

En México, la mayor parte de las decisiones de gobierno están atadas a los intereses partidistas, a la carrera política personal, a las elecciones, a todo menos a lo que verdaderamente importa: la solución del problema. Ocurrencias dignas de una república bananera.

Por herético, por faltar a la verdad, por atentar contra las buenas costumbres, por criticar al gobierno, por atentar contra la paz y el orden público, por cuestionar los valores familiares, por lascivo. Esas eran las razones establecidas por la Inquisición para censurar los libros en la Nueva España;

It is as though I have entered a Bizarro universe where Death is a daddy and husband.” Death chuckled, noticing Nathan was asleep. “Perhaps in another existence

Cousin Stupidd is here, he has inoperable brain cancer....I just put a pillow over his face

this coffee tasted so good it made Agnes Shepherd cry

One day John J. Eastwood said, “There is a bad guy in town.” He said, “I want to fight him.” “First”, he said, “I’m going to have some whiskey.” Then he went outside and started a fight. But he got shot. But he didn’t really get shot. But he killed a hot dog! The next day he was dead. We had his funeral..... Kids, this is about westerns

grown men who wear water shoes to the grocery store deserve all the scorn which is heaped upon them

Esto… —señala algo entre nosotros— no va a pasar cada vez que salga con un hombre. Usted no va a convertir mi vida personal en una especie de… trío bizarro. Ladeo la cabeza, la observo. Cuando se enoja se sonroja hasta el cuello. —No se preocupe, doctora, no me gusta compartir. Su boca se abre, pero no dice nada. Solo me mira mientras busca palabras que no llegan. —Estaré afuera, grite si me necesita. —Avanzo dos pasos, retrocedo uno—. Grite mi nombre, doc.

There’s radiation in the walls of our apartment building, at least that’s what Buzz tells me.

The radiation from the walls continues to soak into our skin, and we glow happily and beautifully until the moment we all step down into our graves.

How curious is this home, our tower?

Bizarro que um dos textos mais importantes da humanidade, vindas direto de Deus, do criador, seja tão confuso. Talvez por isso, sabendo da confusão do texto, Deus supostamente repetidamente reafirma a não-confusão dos seus textos (1 coríntios 14 33). Mais bizarro ainda é haver tantos textos de Deus, em diferente religiões, muito sabidamente falsos agora mas corretos nos seus tempos, afirmando coisas totalmente opostas um ao outro, exigindo, demandando, e ameaçando que somente um seja o verdadeiro Deus, o verdadeiro texto de Deus. De um lado Zeus quera era gay, de outro Jeová, como Alá, que afirma homossexualidade ser um crime.

the family as they warbled their favorite holiday tune. Flood the blood wit muds of duodenum Bloopy noopy nue and wally wally wu Fizz de reason three be golly Floppy droppy loppy moppy nolly nolly goo Gone flea sow hour stray gag barrels Saggy Baggy waggy maggy naggy slippy dippy foo

Angelo and Miriam had decided to wear matching blood red and puke green dresses made of actual congealed blood and puke, covered in sparkly glitter.

Da morte nos ficou esse dom de a pensarmos como coisa sua, coisa por que a pensamos e acaso não a exprime, porque a designamos. Bizarro não é, pois, estar morto, mas lograr que o tempo em si consigo não aja, e erga a mão como quem sabe que a mão é nossa e não exprime o que ambos exprimem, uma, por mão, outro, por tempo que aprende, exprimem e juram em redor da mesa. Para o que há sido o modo, a qualidade de uma infinita aparição ou o que há de exílio no exemplo que a dissemina, decidem a tradição e a carência a espécie de facilidade que rememoraremos. Sobretudo, decidem quando devemos morrer para pagar a legitimidade ou o que há sido anomalia. Porque de tudo nos ficou esse donde não o sentir, de ficar com ele só quanto seja a coisa que não tivemos. A maturidade ou a alegoria que a tem de outra coisa, oh a maturidade não nega o que tememos. O que queríamos dizer está já morto; que poderíamos, pois, agora acrescentar a essa alegria? Da condição da morte, o que morre é nosso, e, além dele, dos bens nossos.

THIS PART OF THE HOSPITAL SEEMS LIKE FOREIGN COUNTRY to me. There is no sense of the battlefield here, no surgical teams in gore-stained scrubs trading witty remarks about missing body parts, no steely-eyed administrators with their clipboards, no herds of old drunks in wheelchairs, and above all, no flocks of wide-eyed sheep huddled together in fear at what might come out of the double steel doors. There is no stench of blood, antiseptic, and terror; the smells here are kinder, homier. Even the colors are different: softer, more pastel, without the drab, battleship utilitarianism of the walls in other parts of the building. There are, in fact, none of the sights and sounds and dreadful smells I have come to associate with hospitals, none at all. There is only the crowd of moon-eyed men standing at the big window, and to my infinite surprise, I am one of them. We stand together, happily pressed up to the glass and cheerfully making space for any newcomer. White, black, brown; Latin, African-American, Asian-American, Creole—it doesn’t matter. We are all brothers. No one sneers or frowns; no one seems to care about getting an accidental nudge in the ribs now and again, and no one, wonder of all, seems to harbor any violent thoughts about any of the others. Not even me. Instead, we all cluster at the glass, looking at the miraculous commonplace in the next room. Are these human beings? Can this really be the Miami I have always lived in? Or has some strange physics experiment in an underground supercollider sent us all to live in Bizarro World, where everyone is kind and tolerant and happy all the time? Where

Who's the boss? TONY DANZA, YOU PRICK!

Ghosts are just one of the possible causes of these phenomena. Other such causes include, but are not limited to, the following: poltergeists, psychic children, magic, aliens, hallucinatory drugs, an alternate dimension analog of my apartment, a Hollywood special effects team, intergalactic space wizards, LASERS, ninjas, demons, vengeful deities, mischievous deities, uncaring impersonal but very clumsy and unapologetic deities, Silent Hill, that little kid from the Twilight Zone, Old Scratch himself, a curse, trapped spirits and/or demons, a building with hemophilia that cuts itself, one really really pissed ex girlfriend, a dimensional portal to Hell, an erection lasting more than four hours, a manifestation of a horror movie into the real world caused by a djinn or other bad wishing, fever dreams, a sentient building, Bizarro Elvis, the Antichrist, the Best Little Demonic Whorehouse in Texas, mental illness, brain damage, living downstairs from a cut-rate blood bank, a vision from God, or even a cursed sword.

...encontrei num livro de anatomia a fotografia de um modelo de cera do interior da orelha. Todos os canais, seios e buracos eram de matéria plena, formando sua imagem positiva.[...] ...o mundo poderia existir numa realidade mais verdadeira, numa estrutura positiva das suas cavernas, de maneira que tudo o que é furado se tornasse cheio, e os relevos atuais se transformassem em vácuos de forma idêntica, sem qualquer conteúdo, como aqueles fósseis delicados e bizarros que reproduzem na pedra os vestígios de uma conha ou de uma folha macerada ao longo das eras, deixando apenas profundamente esculpidas as impressões delicadas de seu contorno. Num mundo como esse, as pessoas cessariam de ser excrescências multicoloridas e carnosas, cheias de órgãos complexos e putrescíveis, tornando-se vácuos puros [...].Essa era, aliás, a sensação...que eu tinha...sempre que...despertava em meio a um terrível isolamento, como se as pessoas e casas ao redor se amalgamassem numa massa compacta e uniforme de uma única matéria, na qual eu existia como simples vácuo sem finalidade, locomovendo-me para lá e para cá.

I stared at him for an indeterminable amount of time, waiting for him to take it back or clarify that he was referring to the dried and candied food date not the event date or for someone to wake me up from this bizarro perpendicular universe. Finally I said, about ten decibels too loudly, “YES!” In actuality, I yelled it. I yelled the word yes. Quinn let out a breath. “Good.” “YES, I’LL GO OUT ON A DATE WITH YOU, QUINN SULLIVAN, TO A PLACE WHERE WE HAVE DINNER.” I couldn’t stop the shouted words. I was having an out-of-body experience, which, for some reason, made me shout my sentence. He

The clouds are blistering brown-black smoke dragons, pregnant with thunderbolts.

He turned away from it all then, away from the rows of houses, the endless streets, the orb passers, killing machines and the factory and its god. As he walked, the world peeled slightly at its edges. The bright tip of something different shined through. Ralph could barely see whatever it was, but, somehow, it seemed like stuff from memory.

I love watching him eat. Teaspoon after teaspoon disappears into his mouth; his saliva coats the spoon’s surface with stuck granules that change its color from silver to a crusty white. I cannot decide if he did me a favor or if I’m a victim. When I try to think, all I can feel is the sugar fluid, and a rage that comes when I find myself, after our feedings, somewhat hungry.

A PRESCRIPTION TO SHUT THE FUCK UP Max Booth III A Prescription for Shut the Fuck Up Refills Left: Unlimited For: Your Stupid Face TAKE THREE TABLETS DAILY OR, REALLY, ANY TIME YOU THINK ABOUT OPENING THAT GODDAMN MOUTH OF YOURS CHILLPILL 50 MG. 50MG Dr. Sick of Hearing Your Voice Discard After: You learn how to interact with actual human beings. WARNING: MAY CAUSE EMPATHY

Some people just seemed born to fail.

The second thing followed closely behind. It was a pair of larger-than-normal human legs, connected by what looked like a forearm across the top, like a ghostly, mobile Stonehenge with a floppy hand hanging over the top of one leg. It walked in like any normal pair of legs might, if legs could walk without a body. It took short strides, perhaps unsure of its movements.

O analfabetismo científico pode ser a nova forma de analfabetismo, que é uma forma do analfabetismo funcional: a pessoa é funcional, mas não consegue questionar algo tão bizarro quanto o criacionismo.

Eu acho bizarro esse medo de ofender religiosos. No Brasil, a religião é pública. Morrei no exterior por seis anos, posso falar por experiência própria. A religião está escancarada no congresso, na rua quando pessoas te param pelo menos uma vez por mês para te arrastar para igrejas delas, sem ao menos perguntar sua religião, e se tem uma. Se os religiosos não querem ser ofendidos, mantenham sua religião dentro das igrejas. Eu nunca entrei em igrejas para ofender religiosos, nem entro. Agora, uma pessoa se acha no direito de ficar falando de Deus o tempo todo em público e se ofender quando alguém se declara não crente. Isso é bizarro e irracional.

Este livro é o relato de um desespero. Este mundo é dado ao homem como um enigma a resolver. Toda minha vida – seus momentos bizarros, desregrados, tanto quanto minhas pesadas meditações – se passou a resolver o enigma. Cheguei, efetivamente, à resolução de problemas cujas novidade e extensão me exaltaram. Adentrando regiões insuspeitadas, vi o que olho nenhum jamais vira. Nada mais embriagante: o riso e a razão, o horror e a luz tornados penetráveis... nada havia que eu não soubesse, que não fosse acessível à minha febre. Como uma insensata maravilhosa, a morte abria incessantemente ou fechava as portas do possível. Nesse dédalo, podia me perder à vontade, entregar-me ao arrebatamento, mas à vontade podia discernir os caminhos, preparar à marcha intelectual uma passagem precisa. A análise do riso abrira-me um campo de coincidências entre os dados de um conhecimento emocional comum e rigoroso e os do conhecimento discursivo. Os conteúdos, que se perdem uns nos outros, das diversas formas de dispêndio (riso, heroísmo, êxtase, sacrifício, poesia, erotismo ou outras) definiam por si próprios uma lei de comunicação que regulava os jogos do isolamento e da perda dos seres. A possibilidade de unir num ponto preciso duas sortes de conhecimento até aqui estranhas uma à outra ou confundidas grosseiramente dava a essa ontologia sua consistência inesperada: o movimento do pensar se perdia por inteiro, mas por inteiro se reencontrava, num ponto onde ri a multidão unânime. Isso me proporcionava um sentimento de triunfo: talvez ilegítimo, prematuro?...parece-me que não. Senti logo o que me acontecia como um peso. O que abalou meus nervos foi ter completado minha tarefa: minha ignorância incidia apenas sobre pontos insignificantes, mais nenhum enigma a resolver! Tudo desabava! Despertei diante de um novo enigma, e este, soube logo, insolúvel: esse enigma era mesmo tão amargo, deixou-me numa impotência tão acabrunhada que eu o experimentei como Deus, se existe, o experimentaria. Quase concluída, abandonei a obra em que devia se encontrar o enigma resolvido. Escrevi “O suplício”, em que o homem atinge o extremo do possível.

Eu era inegavelmente diferente, inegavelmente bizarro, deslocado, desajustado, fora do padrão, perigoso para a sociedade. Inegavelmente doente, eu acreditava. Tudo o que eu sempre abominei, tudo o que eu criticava naquele garoto, tudo o que eu acreditava que fosse uma abominação, na realidade, era o que eu temia admitir que existia dentro de mim. Todos os erros que eu via naquele garoto, que não teve culpa de nascer daquele jeito, eram, na verdade, os pecados que eu já sabia que carregava no fundo da minha alma. Os desejos que eu negava, as tentações que eu rejeitava, as angústias que eu escondia. Tudo sempre esteve lá. Nada daquilo nasceu do Breno, apenas desabrochou, e eu queria simplesmente enfiar para dentro do meu peito de novo.

And then, because it was the middle of the night and I was slightly delirious, that bizarro Comic Sans website from the vampire vigilante group popped into my mind. "I've got it. You're a vampire fugitive, aren't you." "I..." He cleared his throat. A nervous laugh. "How did you know?" I snorted. When he'd told me he was a fan of practical jokes, he hadn't been kidding. "Got it. You're a vampire fugitive." I flopped back down onto my pillow and threw an arm over my eyes. "Look. It's late, and I don't really care what your deal is. I just need to know you aren't going to hurt me. Can you promise me that?" "I swear that I would never hurt you," he said, more earnestly than I'd ever heard him say anything. "Excellent," I said. "Then we're good." Whatever the real thing was that he was too nervous to tell me, if it didn't implicate my physical safety, it didn't matter. The only requirements for this fake boyfriend role were having a pulse, not being a serial killer, and willingness to go along with my plans. It sounded like he fit the bill.

O professor que ia me permitir usar seu horário me disse que foi agredido por alunos ao trazer o assunto na sala de aula, depois ele mesmo me agrediu no WhatsApp depois de ler meu livro, o que achei bem bizarro uma vez que ele disse não ter religião, e se ofendeu com meu livro. O que pode ter ocorrido: parentes, pessoas próximas, são religiosas, e ele se ofendeu por eles. Eu mesmo nunca sendo cristã, já me ofendi quando vi outras pessoas fazendo piadas de cristãos. Isso mostra o poder do cristianismo na sociedade, de adestramento: mesmo quem não pratica se submete, e defende. Isso mostra o tamanho do estrago mental-coletivo que o cristianismo já causou, como causou o racismo, machismo e mais.

Como fã de Rick and Morty e Discovery Channel, me considero um homem da ciência. E isso significa que não acredito em premonições. Mas aquele déjà vu bizarro faria até Einstein balançar.

Just because she likes the same bizarro crap you do doesn’t mean she’s your soul mate.

El encierro claustrofóbico de la Biblioteca Nacional se quebró, años después, con el descubrimiento de la calle Corrientes, que abrió nuevos caminos en mis avatares de lector. Las puertas de sus librerías de viejo, abiertas hasta altas horas de la noche, me atraían con el mismo magnetismo que para otros adolescentes tenía un burdel. La calle Corrientes, entre Talcahuano y Callao, que conocí hacia fines de los años cuarenta, se había convertido en una zona donde circulaba la bohemia artística y literaria. Recalaron en ella las librerías de viejo, que formaban su stock con los remates de bibliotecas privadas vendidas cuando sus dueños cambiaban las grandes mansiones por departamentos. Conocí a los pioneros de estas librerías, al socialista César Moro y a Rafael Palumbo. La librería de este último —cuyo pintoresquismo aprovechó Roberto Arlt en El juguete rabioso— era una cueva oscura y polvorienta, atestada hasta el techo de libros rotos, donde su dueño, ya viejo, envuelto con un chal por sobre una camiseta, vigilaba el local desde el fondo, tomando mate, algunas veces con los pies en una palangana o acompañado por su hija, Rosita Contreras, vedette de teatro de revistas y actriz de cine. También conocí a otros pioneros, más bizarros aún: con el cierre de los prostíbulos en 1936, algunos rufianes y regentas cambiaron insólitamente su anterior profesión por la de libreros de viejo; recuerdo haber visto sorprendido a una mujer madura con aire inocultable de madama retirada frente a la caja registradora. La búsqueda de libros viejos me ocupaba tardes enteras; revolver las mesas o subir a tambaleantes escaleras para alcanzar los estantes altos deparaba la emoción del buscador de tesoros, del cazador furtivo en el bosque: encontrar una presa escondida entre la maleza cuyo valor consistía en ser escasa o difícil de atrapar; descubrir el libro agotado mezclado, en la mesa de ofertas, con fracasadas ediciones de autor, libros de un momento pronto olvidados, saldos de editoriales.

You made us into bottom feeders, and you want us to stay bottom feeders.

Now many people have tried to offer reverse ontological arguments (what we might call 'Bizarro' arguments after Superman’s Doppelgänger) in order to undercut one’s intuitive justification for believing that (1) [It is possible that a maximally great being (aka God) exists.] You can appeal to any sort of world in which God does not exist, whether it be a world with nothing in it, or a single particle...or a world with lots of particles...So long as someone stipulates that ONLY such things exist, one rules out God and, hence, maximal greatness. I think the problem with all such Bizarro ontological arguments is that the second premise 2) But there is a possible world in which God does not exist...begs the question by assuming that the concept of maximal greatness is incoherent. Just because we can imagine a world in which a single particle (or whatever) exists gives no reason for thinking that such a world is metaphysically possible... To do that, you have to know first that maximal greatness is impossible. Now you might think, 'But isn’t the theist in the same boat? For him to know that it is possible that a maximally great being exists, he must presuppose or know first that it is impossible that only a single particle exists.' Not at all! The theist’s confidence in (1) is based upon the intuitive coherence of maximal greatness, considered in and of itself. He then infers that a world with only a single particle or whatever is impossible. It is a conclusion from, not a presupposition of, the ontological argument. By contrast, the bizarro objection is based, not on the admittedly intuitive possibility of a particle (say, a quark or a boson), considered in and of itself, but rather on the world’s consisting wholly of such a particle. The possibility of that speculation is not given to you by the possibility of the particle itself but requires the incoherence of maximal greatness.

Em minha calça está grudado um nome Que não é meu de batismo ou de cartório Um nome... estranho. Meu blusão traz lembrete de bebida Que jamais pus na boca, nessa vida, Em minha camiseta, a marca de cigarro Que não fumo, até hoje não fumei. Minhas meias falam de produtos Que nunca experimentei Mas são comunicados a meus pés. Meu tênis é proclama colorido De alguma coisa não provada Por este provador de longa idade. Meu lenço, meu relógio, meu chaveiro, Minha gravata e cinto e escova e pente, Meu copo, minha xícara, Minha toalha de banho e sabonete, Meu isso, meu aquilo. Desde a cabeça ao bico dos sapatos, São mensagens, Letras falantes, Gritos visuais, Ordens de uso, abuso, reincidências. Costume, hábito, permência, Indispensabilidade, E fazem de mim homem-anúncio itinerante, Escravo da matéria anunciada. Estou, estou na moda. É duro andar na moda, ainda que a moda Seja negar minha identidade, Trocá-la por mil, açambarcando Todas as marcas registradas, Todos os logotipos do mercado. Com que inocência demito-me de ser Eu que antes era e me sabia Tão diverso de outros, tão mim mesmo, Ser pensante sentinte e solitário Com outros seres diversos e conscientes De sua humana, invencível condição. Agora sou anúncio Ora vulgar ora bizarro. Em língua nacional ou em qualquer língua (Qualquer principalmente.) E nisto me comparo, tiro glória De minha anulação. Não sou - vê lá - anúncio contratado. Eu é que mimosamente pago Para anunciar, para vender Em bares festas praias pérgulas piscinas, E bem à vista exibo esta etiqueta Global no corpo que desiste De ser veste e sandália de uma essência Tão viva, independente, Que moda ou suborno algum a compromete. Onde terei jogado fora Meu gosto e capacidade de escolher, Minhas idiossincrasias tão pessoais, Tão minhas que no rosto se espelhavam E cada gesto, cada olhar Cada vinco da roupa Sou gravado de forma universal, Saio da estamparia, não de casa, Da vitrine me tiram, recolocam, Objeto pulsante mas objeto Que se oferece como signo dos outros Objetos estáticos, tarifados. Por me ostentar assim, tão orgulhoso De ser não eu, mas artigo industrial, Peço que meu nome retifiquem. Já não me convém o título de homem. Meu nome novo é Coisa. Eu sou a Coisa, coisamente.

This idea is extremely clever and highlights that there is exclusivity even around the use of violence. The state can legitimately use force to impose its will and increasingly so can the rich. Take away that facility and societies will begin to equalize. If that hotel in India that I went to was stripped of its security, they’d have to address the complex issues that led to them requiring it. “These systems can be very expensive. America employs more private security guards than high school teachers. States and countries with high inequality tend to hire proportionally more guard labor. If you’ve ever spent time in a radically unequal city in South Africa, you’ll see that both the rich and the poor live surrounded by private security contractors, barbed wire, and electrified fencing. Some people have nice prison cages, and others have not-so-nice ones. But when there’s inequality, there’s got to be someone making sure, with force, that it stays that way.” Matt here, metaphorically, broaches the notion that the rich too are impeded by inequality, imprisoned in their own way. Much like with my earlier plea for you to bypass the charge of hypocrisy, I now find myself in the unenviable position of urging you, like some weird, bizarro Jesus, to take pity on the rich. It’s not an easy concept to grasp, and I’m not suggesting it’s a priority. Faced with a choice between empathizing with “the rich” and “the homeless,” by all means go with the homeless. It is reductive, though, not to acknowledge that all are encompassed by this system and none of us are free while it endures. I’m not saying it’s worse to be one of Bernie Ecclestone’s kids than Jason, the homeless bloke who lives under the bridge at the end of my street; I’m saying that the two are connected and everyone will benefit from change. I should also point out that empathy, sympathy, and love are limitless resources, energies that never deplete, and at this time of dwindling fuels we should cherish and explore these inexhaustible inner resources more than ever.

Art is born from a void within us; it is born to fill that void.

I wish we were the kind of addicts from movies, the kind with guns!

[The] more confidence an expert had, the worse his predictions tended to be and that the more famous an expert was, the worse her predictions were on average. Only in Wall Street Bizarro World would we expect confident experts to be stupid and famous thought leaders to be deserving of infamy.

We armed ourselves with pistols, shotguns, and assault rifles. We knew that the government had us impossibly outgunned but nevertheless felt obliged to not only prepare ourselves for the upcoming collapse of society as we had known it, but also to do whatever it took to speed the day when that collapse occurred. The government was illegitimate; a puppet regime manipulated by a shadowy and sinister force that was hellbent on our destruction. The supposed democracy that seated traitorous politicians had been tainted by mass media that poisoned the minds and souls of our people to not only blind them against what was happening, but also to con them into complicity in their own downfall. Our guns served many purposes. In addition to the simple purpose they were designed for-to kill people-our firearms endowed with us a sense of destiny befitting an epic struggle against fearsome odds. The deadly seriousness of the situation was underlined, italicized, and emboldened by the smell of gun oil and the clack of magazines sliding into position as we recruited new soldiers into our movement. According to the founding Fathers, it was not only our right, but our duty to bear arms against the tyrants who had usurped our beloved nation. I spent 7 years immersed in that world. A reality where I was constantly looking over my shoulder to reveal the handiwork of the enemy. Every aspect of our culture faced a relentless assault. Everything that was good about America-Life, Liberty, And The Pursuit of Happiness-had been denigrated and disparaged by those that sought to impose Marxist equality. I hated them for that. I hated them with the passion of a patriot. That hate was fueled by what I truly believed was a love for my race. Oops! Did I say "race?" I meant a love for my country, Or was it a love of Christ? Or Allah? It could have been any of a number of allegiances-any number of ways to identify myself-that I built walls around and bristled at those outside, and it was all in the name of love. Roads to a lot of really bad places are paved with that kind of bizarro love. A vampiric, soul-depleting love-substitute that beckons to those who never know the real thing. I was very lucky to realize the true love of a little girl-my daughter-otherwise I'd likely be dead or in prison like so many of my former comrades. Simply by playing with other children, she taught me that the walls and guns and hate that had seemed to give me purpose were in fact unnecessary constructs that threatened to separate us. The children she shared toys, laughs, and smiles with also shared the same need for love and compassion that we all do-regardless of the color of our skin, our family's choice of spirituality, or the part of the world we come from. I made a decision to cast aside the fear that masqueraded as love, and to live my life in wonderful affection for diversity instead of scorn for it.

A arte surge de um vazio que existe dentro de nós; surge para preencher esse mesmo vazio.

Gracias al Congreso, los mexicanos hemos terminado pagando fraudes, créditos fantasmas, rescates bancarios y carreteros, desfalcos y corrupción de los gobernadores, el IVA en todas su modalidades, lujos y dispendio de diputados y senadores, sus automóviles, su telefonía celular, sus comidas, sus seguros de gastos médicos mayores, sus ocho mil asesores y muchas otras cosas más que permanecen en la opacidad.

El manto de la patria es una gran cobija, un enorme jorongo que la clase política ha usado para cubrir la corrupción, la impunidad, la simulación, sus errores, sus excesos, sus dispendios, sus venganzas, sus pecados y todo aquello que avergonzaría a cualquier ciudadano común y corriente;

¿En qué te conviertes si tu padre, al margen de golpearte salvajemente, considera formativo que presencies las ejecuciones de presos sentenciados por delitos graves, mientras tu madre te educa en el terror a Dios? Al parecer, en asesina serial. Y en empresaria.

Ningún gobernante de México ha gobernado democráticamente por la sencilla razón de que el pueblo mexicano no es demócrata”.

Higrômetros singulares Não observamos a secura da atmosfera através do rigorismo de processos clássicos, mas graças a higrômetros inesperados e bizarros. Percorrendo certa vez, nos fins de setembro, as cercanias de Canudos, fugindo à monotonia de um canhoneio frouxo de tiros espaçados e soturnos, encontramos, no descer de uma encosta, anfiteatro irregular, onde as colinas se dispunham circulando a um vale único. Pequenos arbustos, icozeiros virentes viçando em tufos intermeados de palmatórias de flores rutilantes, davam ao lugar a aparência exata de algum velho jardim em abandono. Ao lado uma árvore única, uma quixabeira alta, sobranceando a vegetação franzina. O sol poente desatava, longa, a sua sombra pelo chão, e protegido por ela — braços largamente abertos, face volvida para os céus, — um soldado descansava. Descansava… havia três meses. Morrera no assalto de 18 de julho. A coronha da mannlicher estrondada, o cinturão e o boné jogados a uma banda, e a farda em tiras, diziam que sucumbira em luta corpo a corpo com adversário possante. Caíra, certo, derreando-se à violenta pancada que lhe sulcara a fronte, manchada de uma escara preta. E ao enterrar-se, dias depois, os mortos, não fora percebido. Não compartira, por isto, à vala comum de menos de um côvado de fundo em que eram jogados, formando pela última vez juntos, os companheiros abatidos na batalha. O destino que o removera do lar desprotegido fizera-lhe afinal uma concessão: livrara-o da promiscuidade lúgubre de um fosso repugnante; e deixara-o ali há três meses — braços largamente abertos, rosto voltado para os céus, para os sóis ardentes, para os luares claros, para as estrelas fulgurantes... E estava intacto. Murchara apenas. Mumificara conservando os traços fisionômicos, de modo a incutir a ilusão exata de um lutador cansado, retemperando-se em tranqüilo sono, à sombra daquela árvore benfazeja. Nem um verme — o mais vulgar dos trágicos analistas da matéria — lhe maculara os tecidos. Volvia ao turbilhão da vida sem decomposição repugnante, numa exaustão imperceptível. Era um aparelho revelando de modo absoluto, mas sugestivo, a secura extrema dos ares. Os cavalos mortos naquele mesmo dia semelhavam espécimens empalhados, de museus. O pescoço apenas mais alongado e fino, as pernas ressequidas e o arcabouço engelhado e duro. [...] Quando aquelas lufadas, caindo a súbitas, se compunham com as colunas ascendentes, em remoinhos turbilhonantes, à maneira de minúsculos ciclones, sentia-se, maior, a exsicação do ambiente adusto: cada partícula de areia suspensa do solo gretado e duro irradiava em todos os sentidos, feito um foco calorífico, a surda combustão da terra. Fora disto — nas longas calmarias, fenômenos óticos bizarros. Do topo da Favela, se a prumo dardejava o sol e a atmosfera estagnada imobilizava a natureza em torno, atentando-se para os descambados, ao longe, não se distinguia o solo. O olhar fascinado perturbava-se no desequilíbrio das camadas desigualmente aquecidas, parecendo varar através de um prisma desmedido e intáctil, e não distinguia a base das montanhas, como que suspensas. Então, ao norte da Canabrava, via-se um ondular estonteador; estranho palpitar de vagas longínquas; a ilusão maravilhosa de um seio de mar, largo, irisado, sobre que caísse, e refrangesse e ressaltasse a luz esparsa em cintilações ofuscantes.

Even at the most cynical of levels, the last thing a sane conservative might do to advance this or that less-than-popular policy would be to tie it to a figure as utterly hated and morally compromised as Mr. Trump. The man often seems to function like a Bizarro Midas, lending little more than sabotage to what could otherwise constitute a civil and sincere conservative movement… Every political action tends to yield an equal and opposition reaction, and for any conscientious conservative who hopes to steer the ship of government toward such respectable policies as, say, a balanced federal budget, a secure (if not necessarily sealed) border, a lean state hedged to its sharpest shape by constant audits and edits, etc. etc., Trump presents a veritable iceberg ready to sink those dreams into oblivion. And I say this as someone who had expected to vote Republican until the eleventh hour of 2016.

Los mexicanos hemos aprendido ha vivir en el absurdo y lo hemos convertido en nuestra zona de confort.

Some bratty boys from the neighborhood decide to make a secret clubhouse in my skull. They don't ask me about it, but I have no argument against the plan. So, every afternoon getting home from school they occupy my head. The kids laugh loudly, and crack their chip bags. Sometimes smoke flies out of my ear. I suspect they are experimenting with their first cigarettes. Of course, I was just like them when I was their age, so I'm not going to tell on them; that’s for sure. If only they wouldn’t leave such a mess every time. It can be really awkward, when having a conversation with someone I begin to shake or nod my head and suddenly a crumpled porn magazine falls out from my ear. Soon, the parents get wind of the secret clubhouse, and they step into my apartment swinging a bone saw. They insist on looking in my skull; telling me they have the right to know what their boys are up to behind their backs. Now, the kids and I are both punished – they are grounded in their rooms, as for me, the parents won't give back my skullcap. It's quite embarrassing. Going to work in the mornings some cheeky brats on the bus are having a great time pushing spitballs and chewed bubble gum between my brain wrinkles when I'm not looking. That’s enough, I decide one morning, I have rights too. So I knock on the mother's door, who has my upper head. She just stands there in the door, smoking, holding my skullcap in her hand, which looks like a half hairy coconut, and she flicks the ash into it. After I’m done with my speech about human rights, she slams the door in my face. I have no time for a second round I must leave to work. Scratching out a used ticket from my brain wrinkles I catch the next bus. A young couple whispers and chuckles behind me. I quickly get off at the next stop, before they could plan a secret date in my occipital lobe.

Grown men who insist on wearing water shoes to the grocery store deserve all the ridicule which is heaped upon them

JENNIFER ENGSTROM (the Angel at Kansas City Repertory Theatre, 2015): I feel like we are in a bizarro Part 3 of Angels in America, and the ghost of Roy Cohn is sweetly caressing the nuts of an American president who rides naked on horseback with Vladimir Putin.