Satire Philosophy Quotes

Windmill or no windmill, he said, life would go on as it had always gone on--that is, badly.

Only a psychopath would ever think of doing these things, only a psychopath would dream of abusing other people in such a way, only a psychopath would treat people as less than human just for money. The shocking truth is, even though they now have most if not all of the money, they want still more, they want all of the money that you have left in your pockets, they want it all because they have no empathy with other people, with other creatures, they have no feeling for the world which they exploit, they have no love or sense of being or belonging for their souls are dead, dead to all things but greed and a desire to rule over others.

Some people avoid thinking deeply in public, only because they are afraid of coming across as suicidal.

Some of the best things that have ever happened to us wouldn’t have happened to us, if it weren’t for some of the worst things that have ever happened to us.

I am Me. In all the world, there is no one else exactly like me. Everything that comes out of me is authentically mine, because I alone chose it -- I own everything about me: my body, my feelings, my mouth, my voice, all my actions, whether they be to others or myself. I own my fantasies, my dreams, my hopes, my fears. I own my triumphs and successes, all my failures and mistakes. Because I own all of me, I can become intimately acquainted with me. By so doing, I can love me and be friendly with all my parts. I know there are aspects about myself that puzzle me, and other aspects that I do not know -- but as long as I am friendly and loving to myself, I can courageously and hopefully look for solutions to the puzzles and ways to find out more about me. However I look and sound, whatever I say and do, and whatever I think and feel at a given moment in time is authentically me. If later some parts of how I looked, sounded, thought, and felt turn out to be unfitting, I can discard that which is unfitting, keep the rest, and invent something new for that which I discarded. I can see, hear, feel, think, say, and do. I have the tools to survive, to be close to others, to be productive, and to make sense and order out of the world of people and things outside of me. I own me, and therefore, I can engineer me. I am me, and I am Okay.

If we had to earn our age by thinking for ourselves at least once a year, only a handful of people would reach adulthood.

Some of our friends are our friends only because we used to be friends.

Honesty is admired, and starves.

In some rare cases, a friendship between two people benefits both of them, and what’s more, in some rarer cases, it benefits both of them equally.

We all have problems. Or rather, everyone has at least one thing that they regard as a problem.

When a political opponent resorts to the racist card, it's a sure sign of moral bankruptcy: there's no decent argument left in the armoury.

Is it a simple form of madness to lose a hundred thousand sesterces, and not have a shirt to give to a shivering slave?

Death would not surprise us as often as it does, if we let go of the misbelief that newborns are less mortal than the elderly.

Every single good person is a good person for their own sake, not for the sake of humanity, not even for the sake of another human being.

We are, or rather our natural desire to evade pain and to attain pleasure is, the primary reason we do or say every single thing we do or say.

*Prostitution* is a euphemism for rape incidents that the victim and the economy profits from.

The connection between vice and meanness is a fit subject for satire, but when the satire is a fact, it cuts with the irresistible power of a diamond.

In many cases, it was the woman’s stomach—not her heart—that fell for her man.

Benign Philosophy, by degrees, strips from us most of our vices, and all our mistakes; it is she that first teaches us the right.

Females and boys are the only creatures that propose others for friendship. As for the rest of us, friendship sort of just happens.

No single bad person regards themselves as a bad person.

The only thing I hate about good people is that they like making their being good people bad people’s problem.

I believe in Supreme Being, a Creator, whoever he may be, it's of no importance to me, who put us here on earth to do our duty as citizens and fathers; but I don't need to go to church and kiss silver platters and dig into my pocket to fatten up a lot of humbugs who eat better than you or I do! Because he can be worshiped just as well in a wood, a field, or even just gazing at the ethereal vault, like the ancients.

I have been told the best things in life are free ~ I found them very expensive.

Quite possibly the only infinite power in the universe may be the human capacity for self-deception.

It is humanly impossible to be selfless. As a matter of fact, human beings are inherently selfish.

The pleasure or the benefit that the object of our deed derives from it is every now and then greater or even more important than the one we derive from the deed.

In some cases, it is the woman’s stomach—not her heart—that has left her man for another.

Rulers craft stories, the ruled listen.

When you trick somebody into participating in a small-time fraud, it's called a 'scam.' But when the scam is so big that people have no choice but to participate, it's called 'economics.

The universe seems to be a lot like a car or a computer, in that it's designed to be user-friendly, which doesn't necessarily require the user to have a clue what's going on under the hood.

To label someone as selfless is symptomatic of having bought the preposterous claim that a human being can have great concern for other human beings and little concern for themselves, or that, when taken to extremes, a human being can have great concern for other human beings and absolutely no concern for themselves.

Some fools have children. Some have children who have children. And some have children who have children who have children.

Any fool can start a religion. And many do.

Many people know the power of speech. They are silent.

Technically, you cannot really own a book you bought; you can only own the sheets of paper your copy is printed on; unless, of course, you are the book’s publisher.

The fruth is the truth revealed by stipulating what the meaning of 'is' is.

he writer has a grudge against society, which he documents with accounts of unsatisfying sex, unrealized ambition, unmitigated lo neliness, and a sense of local and global distress. The square, overpopulation, the bourgeois, the bomb and the cocktail party are variously identified as sources of the grudge. There follows a little obscenity here, a dash of philosophy there, considerable whining overall, and a modern satirical novel is born.

I have explained to my children that though this act is not legal, it is nonetheless moral, in a neat reversal of Starbucks' historical tax avoidance, which though legal, was not moral. Teaching children to steal from Starbucks is a way of making ethics fun for kids and bringing philosophy alive.

Mae Brussell began to study the pattern of Nazis coming to the United States after World War Two and patterns of murders identical to those in Nazi Germany. It was as if an early Lenny Bruce bit—on how a show-bit booking agency, MCA, chose Adolf Hitler as dictator—had actually been a satirical prophecy of the way Richard Nixon would rise to power. “How much violence was there in Nazi Germany,” Mae asks rhetorically, “before the old Germany, the center of theater, opera, philosophy, poetry, psychology and medicine, was destroyed? How many incidents took place that were not coincidental before it was called Fascism? What were the transitions? How many people? Was it when the first tailor disappeared? Or librarian? Or professor? Or when the first press was closed or the first song eliminated? Or when the first political science teacher was killed coming home on his bike? How many incidents happened there that were perfectly normal until people woke up and said, ‘Hey, we’re in a police state!

...un animalucho con un bonete en la cabeza, que cortando el hilo a todos los filósofos dijo que el sabía el secreto, y se hallaba en la Suma de Santo Tomas; y mirando de pies a cabeza a los dos moradores celestes, les sustentó que sus personas, sus mundos y sus estrellas habían sido creados para el hombre. Al oír tal sandez, nuestros dos caminantes hubieron de caerse uno sobre el otro pareciéndose de una risa inextinguible.

The history of philosophy and philosophical criticism generally has assumed that Aristophanes's hiccups and sneezes were dry, polite affairs that could be reduced to their ordinal, satirical, historical, or literary import. But while the philosophers may have decided to avoid excess food and drink for the sake of philosophical reflection, the gustatory returns in the odorous afterglow of digestion's excessive effects on the bloated corpus.

Six men control almost all the media in the United States--book publishing, magazines, television, movie studios, newspapers, and radio. They are not friendly toward feminism, which has almost disappeared from the surface of our society. You will almost never see a feminist column on an op-ed page, a feminist article in a magazine, or newspaper, actual (not satirized) feminist ideas on television or in the movies. Only magazines & radio controlled by feminists--and these are few and not well-funded--offer information on the feminist perspective. This might be understandable if feminism were a wild-eyed manic philosophy. But it is a belief, a politics, based on one simple fact: women are human beings who matter as much as men. That is all that feminism claims. As human beings, women have the right to control their own bodies, to walk freely in the world, to train their minds and bodies, and to love and hate at will. Only those who wish to continue to coerce women into a servant/slave class for men cannot accept this principle.

The company was now come to a halt and the first shots were fired and the grey riflesmoke rolled through the dust as the lancers breached their ranks. The kid's horse sank beneath him with a long pneumatic sigh. He had already fired his rifle and now he sat on the ground and fumbled with his shotpouch. A man near him sat with an arrow hanging out of his neck. He was bent slightly as if in prayer. The kid would have reached for the bloody hoop-iron point but then he saw that the man wore another arrow in his breast to the fletching and he was dead. Everywhere there were horses down and men scrambling and he saw a man who sat charging his rifle while blood ran from his ears and he saw men and he saw men with their revolvers disassembled trying to fit the fit the spare loaded cylinders they carried and he saw men kneeling who tilted and clasped their shadows on the ground and he saw men lanced and caught up by the hair and scalped standing and he saw the horses of war trample down the fallen and a little whitefaced pony with one clouded eye leaned out of the murk and snapped at him like a dog and was gone. Among the wounded some seemed dumb and without understanding and some were pale through the masks of dust and some had fouled themselves or tottered brokenly onto the spears of the savages. Now driving in a wild frieze of headlong horses with eyes walled and teeth cropped and naked riders with clusters of arrows clenched in their jaws and their shields winking in the dust and up the far side of the ruined ranks in a pipping of boneflutes and dropping down off the side of their mounts with one heel hung in the the withers strap and their short bows flexing beneath the outstretched necks of the ponies until they had circled the company and cut their ranks in two and then rising up again like funhouse figures, some with nightmare faces painted on their breasts, ridding down the unhorsed Saxons and spearing and clubbing them and leaping from their mounts with knives and running about on the ground with a peculiar bandylegged like creatures driven to alien forms of locomotion and stripping the clothes from the dead and seizing them up by the hair and passing their blades about the skulls of the living and the dead alike and snatching aloft the bloody wigs and hacking and chopping at the naked bodies, ripping off limbs, heads, gutting the strange white torsos and holding up great handfuls of viscera, genitals, some of the savages so slathered up with gore they might have rolled in it like dogs and some who fell upon the dying and sodomized them with loud cries to their fellows. And now the horses of the dead came pounding out of the smoke and dust and circled with flapping leather and wild manes and eyes whited with fear like the eyes of the blind and some were feathered with arrows and some lanced through and stumbling and vomiting blood as they wheeled across the killing ground and clattered from sight again. Dust stanched the wet and naked heads of the scalped who with the fringe of hair beneath their wounds and tonsured to the bone now lay like maimed and naked monks in the bloodsoaked dust and everywhere the dying groaned and gibbered and horses lay screaming

I have finished Russell's Nightmares and must confess that they did not come up to expectation. No doubt it was my fault for expecting too much, knowing how unsatisfactory I find his philosophical views; but I had hoped that, at least, when he was not writing normal philosophy, he would be entertaining. Alas! I found his wit insipid, and his serious passages almost intolerable—there was something of the embarrassment of meeting a Great Man for the first time, and finding him even more preoccupied with trivialities than oneself. In his Introduction, Russell says 'Every isolated passion is, in isolation, insane; sanity may be defined as a synthesis of insanities', and then he proceeds to give us examples of isolated insanities—the Queen of Sheba as Female Vanity, Bowdler as Prudery, the Psycho-Analyst as Social Conformity, and so on. Amongst these, as you noted, is the Existentialist as Ontological Scepticism. Here, Russell's satire is directed partly against what Sartre has called 'a literature of extreme situations'; and this, for an Englishman, is no doubt a legitimate target, since the English do not admit that there are such things—though, of course, this makes the English a target for the satire of the rest of Europe, particularly the French. But what Russell is not entitled to do is to group the insanity of doubting one's existence along with the other insanities, and this for the simple reason that it precedes them. One may be vain or modest; one may be prudish or broadminded; one may be a social conformist or an eccentric; but in order to be any of these things, one must at least be. The question of one's existence must be settled first—one cannot be insanely vain if one doubts whether one exists at all and, precisely, Russell's existentialist does not even succeed in suffering—except when his philosophy is impugned (but this merely indicates that he has failed to apply his philosophy to itself, and not, as Russell would have us believe, because he has failed to regard his philosophy in the light of his other insanities). The trouble really is, that Russell does not, or rather will not, admit that existence poses a problem at all; and, since he omits this category from all his thinking nothing he says concerns anybody in particular.

Un animalucho con un bonete en la cabeza, que cortando el hilo a todos los filósofos dijo que el sabía el secreto, y se hallaba en la Suma de Santo Tomas; y mirando de pies a cabeza a los dos moradores celestes, les sustentó que sus personas, sus mundos y sus estrellas habían sido creados para el hombre. Al oír tal sandez, nuestros dos caminantes hubieron de caerse uno sobre el otro pareciéndose de una risa inextinguible.

Even for the lucky , life is too short and all the best bits are bad for your health.

If I must recall each breath's dance, Like heart's steady beat in life's expanse. Just like my pulse, am I but a part? Serving life's rhythm, making this art. Woven together, skillfully entwined Am I but a thread, in this grand design?

Necessary Equals by Stewart Stafford The grandest hearth cannot warm, Once grave chills touch the aged, The beggar donates his last coin, At a counting house of the well-waged. The giant is meek and misunderstood, As the slighted short one grows fiery, Life's spun gold pawned for pennies, The stricken strive to buy back entirely. In old age, winter shadows lengthen, As babes on tiptoes crave growth, So-called leaders spit out patron's lies, As a street madman roars his frank oath. Opposing siblings they are, but needed, Fellow travellers orbit on a path seeded. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Yet I know about how detrimental it alone can be, The audience can see satire as a time for lightheartedness A time to laugh instead of a time to ponder How could I meaningfully address a problem if I only spend time ridiculing it? Satire, I advise myself, “Use it, but use it not to an excessive degree

If you cannot make others think deeply, at least make them laugh hard. Do both, if you are that gifted.

हमने कहा छोटू इस युग में पढ़ना ज़रूरी है। बिना शिक्षा के तो मानो ज़िंदगी अधूरी है। वो बोला, मेरा मास्टर भी मुझे यही समझाता था। खुद टूटी साइकल से स्कूल आता था। अगर बचपन के मन में, शिक्षा पे टूटी हुई साइकल की छाप है। यह हमारी पीढ़ी की लिए अभिशाप है।

Have you seen a man's fangs? Try playfully biting his favorite ism. And not only will he show his teeth, but also his thirty two fangs.

When perceived correctly, the world is a mirror which, disinterestedly, maintains a current record of our nature and constitution. Within this vast parabolic mirror, we should be able to see clearly the forms our faults have taken--which daily stand in our way. Yet, for the sake of allotting our inadequacies a wide berth and so as to avoid running into them head-on, we have learned to artfully avoid our own reflections. Our most regrettable qualities have successfully overwhelmed our nobility and now the image of a man has become indistinguishable from the form of his fault. Of a man, it can no longer be said that he is as a monkey aping the behavior of angels. For in our avoidance of ourselves, we have given up even on strife. The purpose of this critique is not to aide in the composition of an epic satire; rather, I would like this knowledge to serve as a launching pad. We can correct the human model--there is a method.

Comedy, especially in the form of satire, also specializes in deriding the self-importance of human beings. For instance, the notion that the United States Senate is “the world’s greatest deliberative body” warrants laughter and ridicule, given the absurdity of its proceedings. To take another example, it is no accident that dictators especially dislike being mocked, for they are deserving targets of mockery, given their grandiloquence and pathetic lust for political power. Are figures like Kim Jong-un, Donald Trump, and Jair Bolsonaro not utterly ridiculous, deserving of contempt and laughter? True, they are also dangerous individuals, responsible for the deaths of many innocent persons, but recognizing that fact is compatible with mockery of their absurd personas. Of course, the self-importance of human beings is not limited to politicians and dictators. Fortunately, tenured academics have little in the way of political power beyond their own institutions (and not much there, either), but it would be difficult to find a class of persons whose endeavors are both more trivial and more self-prized. When a full professor publicly excoriates a graduate student for allegedly misunderstanding some arcane point, it is certainly abusive but is also comical when one considers the abuser’s self-seriousness in the face of trivia. In a case like this, the victim deserves sympathy, but the abuser deserves (among other things) contemptuous and dismissive laughter. As with so many other human enterprises, academia deserves to be lampooned, as it is in the novels of David Lodge, for example.

I'm joking when I say I'm the grand-pop of those claiming to be an avatar-messiah or god. But if they're serious, then, I am who I am.

I love religious nuts. They make me remember I have them too. So, being a health nut, I scratch them religiously. Just as I do my butt.

If men are forbid to speak their minds seriously on certain subjects, they will do it ironically. If they are forbid to speak at all upon such subjects, or if they find it really dangerous to do so, they will then redouble their disguise, involve themselves in mysteriousness, and talk so as hardly to be understood, or at least not plainly interpreted, by those who are disposed to do them a mischief And thus raillery is brought more in fashion, and runs into an extreme. 'Tis the persecuting spirit has raised the bantering one ; and want of liberty may account for want of a true politeness, and for the corruption or wrong use of pleasantry and humour. If in this respect we strain the just measure of what we call urbanity, and are apt sometimes to take a buffooning rustic air, we may thank the ridiculous solemnity and sour humour of our pedagogues ; or rather, they may thank themselves, if they in particular meet with the heaviest of this kind of treatment. For it will naturally fall heaviest where the constraint has been the severest. The greater the weight is, the bitterer will be the satire. The higher the slavery, the more exquisite the buffoonery.

When he had ate his fill, and proceeded from the urgent first cup and necessary second to the voluntary third which might be toyed with at leisure, without any particular outcry seeming to suggest he should be on his guard, he leant back, spread the city’s news before him, and, by glances between the items, took a longer survey of the room. Session of the Common Council. Vinegars, Malts, and Spirituous Liquors, Available on Best Terms. Had he been on familiar ground, he would have been able to tell at a glance what particular group of citizens in the great empire of coffee this house aspired to serve: whether it was the place for poetry or gluttony, philosophy or marine insurance, the Indies trade or the meat-porters’ burial club. Ships Landing. Ships Departed. Long Island Estate of Mr De Kyper, with Standing Timber, to be Sold at Auction. But the prints on the yellowed walls were a mixture. Some maps, some satires, some ballads, some bawdy, alongside the inevitable picture of the King: pop-eyed George reigning over a lukewarm graphical gruel, neither one thing nor t’other. Albany Letter, Relating to the Behaviour of the Mohawks. Sermon, Upon the Dedication of the Monument to the Late Revd. Vesey. Leases to be Let: Bouwerij, Out Ward, Environs of Rutgers’ Farm. And the company? River Cargos Landed. Escaped Negro Wench: Reward Offered. – All he could glean was an impression generally businesslike, perhaps intersown with law. Dramatic Rendition of the Classics, to be Performed by the Celebrated Mrs Tomlinson. Poem, ‘Hail Liberty, Sweet Succor of a Briton’s Breast’, Offered by ‘Urbanus’ on the Occasion of His Majesty’s Birthday. Over there there were maps on the table, and a contract a-signing; and a ring of men in merchants’ buff-and-grey quizzing one in advocate’s black-and-bands. But some of the clients had the wind-scoured countenance of mariners, and some were boys joshing one another. Proceedings of the Court of Judicature of the Province of New-York. Poor Law Assessment. Carriage Rates. Principal Goods at Mart, Prices Current. Here he pulled out a printed paper of his own from an inner pocket, and made comparison of certain figures, running his left and right forefingers down the columns together. Telescopes and Spy-Glasses Ground. Regimental Orders. Dinner of the Hungarian Club. Perhaps there were simply too few temples here to coffee, for them to specialise as he was used.

Books, no matter how accurate they are, cannot transmit ideas as faithfully as an eyewitness. Abd al-Rahman had personally witnessed existentialism. He had touched it, felt it, and stuck to it like no one else, unlike those who did not see it but dreamt of it and imagined it.

Were one to call your stupid ism good, well then, one would either be equally idiotic, or a fool, or no good.

I love you silly 'holy' book. Here's hoping everybody un-reads it.

An avalanche is just a snowflake that got pissed off.

I'm grasping for some sense of alacrity and the compulsion to perform in a broad way, before life's random curtain call retires me from this tired satire, this comically absurd play.

If Heraclitus was a Macedonian, his philosophy would be : No Macedonian ever steps in the same native country twice. For it’s not the same country name and he’s not the same citizen.

The lemons life gave me are stored in a basket. Judgmental people provoke me to bake them into a whipped pie of sugary spite. I gladly serve it up to them...in an effort to silence their meringue pie hole from complaining.

When perceived correctly, the world is a mirror which, disinterestedly, maintains a current record of our nature and constitution. Within this vast parabolic mirror, we should be able to see clearly the forms our faults have taken―which daily stand in our way. Yet, for the sake of allotting our inadequacies a wide berth and so as to avoid running into them head-on, we have learned to artfully avoid our own reflections. Our most regrettable qualities have successfully overwhelmed our nobility and now the image of a man has become indistinguishable from the form of his fault. Of a man, it can no longer be said that he is as a monkey aping the behavior of angels. For in our avoidance of ourselves, we have given up even on strife. The purpose of this critique is not to aid in the composition of an epic satire; rather, I would that this knowledge serve as a launching pad. We can correct the human model―there is a method.

When perceived correctly, the world is a mirror which, disinterestedly, maintains a current record of our nature and constitution. Within this vast parabolic mirror, we should be able to see clearly the forms our faults have taken―which daily stand in our way. Yet, for the sake of allotting our inadequacies a wide berth and so as to avoid running into them head-on, we have learned to artfully avoid our own reflections. Our most regrettable qualities have successfully overwhelmed our nobility and now the image of a man has become indistinguishable from the form of his fault. Of a man, it can no longer be said that he is as a monkey aping the behavior of angels. For in our avoidance of ourselves, we have given up even on strife. The purpose of this critique is not to aid in the composition of an epic satire; rather, I would like this knowledge to serve as a launching pad. We can correct the human model―there is a method.

You can't let these things eat you up every sing night. You can't keep resurrecting every morning to go back and take the same damage over again. You have to say, 'Today is the last day I will die for this,' You have to take control back from the things that will otherwise mean destruction for you.

Life is full of surprises and satire: “What we expect the least, they that transpire; what we expect the most, they that misfire.” Nothing’s certain: “Sometimes smile, sometimes ire.

We convince ourselves it’s wisdom, when in reality, it’s just well-articulated confusion—absurd worlds mocking logic, sharp wit slicing through pretense, and reality bending just enough to remind us that the joke is, and always has been, on us.

the Dulles policy of massive nuclear retaliation bore a disturbing resemblance to the Nazis’ exterminationist philosophy—a link that would be darkly satirized in Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 film Dr. Strangelove, with its Führer-saluting doomsday scientist.

I don't think the present time exists. I mean, if I am wanking to porn, am I looking at it or hearing it? I ask this because the light travels way faster than the sound meaning it's not really happening simultaneously. The same applies to the fact that the stimulation on my genitals must be transformed into impulses that travel to my brain making me feel the stimulation. It takes time for consciousness to process the reality. Therefore, there is always a delay before now and our awareness of now. With this being said, which part of us interacts with the present time?

It is part of the price of leadership of this great and free nation to be the target of clever satirists.

... la muerte está vedada a los dioses, Sí, aunque deberían cargar con todos los crímenes cometidos en su nombre o por su causa.

Cuidado, caín, hablas demasiado, el señor está oyéndote y tarde o temprano te castigará, El señor no oye, el señor es sordo, por todas partes se le alza súplicas, son los pobres, los infelices, los desgraciados, todos implorándole el remedio que el mundo les niega, y el señor les da la espalda.

Algo sí he aprendido, Qué, Que nuestro dios, el creador del cielo y de la tierra, está rematadamente loco, Cómo te atreves a decir que el señor dios está loco, Porque sólo un loco sin conciencia de sus actos admitiría ser el culpable directo de la muerte de cientos de miles de personas y se comportaría luego como si nada hubiese sucedido, salvo que, y pudiera ser, no se tratara de locura, la involuntaria, la auténtica, sino de pura y simple maldad, Dios nunca podría ser malo, o no sería dios, para malo ya tenemos al demonio, No puede ser bueno un dios que da a un padre la orden de que mate y después queme en una hoguera a su propio hijo simplemente para poner a prueba su fe, eso no se le ocurriría ni al más maligno de los demonios.

Cuidado, caín, hablas demasiado, el señor está oyéndote y tarde o temprano te castigará, El señor no oye, el señor es sordo, por todas partes se le alzan súplicas, son los pobres, los infelices, los desgraciados, todos implorándole el remedio que el mundo les niega, y el señor les da la espalda.

Al día siguiente nadie murió.

THE MANAGEMENT REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU ARE NO LONGER TECHNICALLY ALIVE.

Everything has an error rate

We are speaking from our own lived experiences and quoting from our pain, tears, scars, and grief. You are disrespecting us, undermining us, and gaslighting us, trying to rewrite our history by quoting an online satire written by a morally bankrupt person who distorts our reality, because their masters were the ones profiting from our loss.

The Outer Wastes by Stewart Stafford Echoes across the cosmos Supernovae of Gemini suns, Truth storms of meteor showers, Coronas flashing frigid guns. Spinning stone bedrock cracks, A diaspora exiled to the void, Interstellar offspring pushing Sentience for the ultra-paranoid. Pandora's black hole gifts, Astrologer spins a cosmic warning, Scrubbing up, celestial enlightenment, Serpentine Adam's apple ripe for boring. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

Biologists are diligently unraveling the mystery of how such formidable creatures like dinosaurs vanished from the face of the Earth. Meanwhile, our Maulvi has already solved the enigma—turns out, the dinosaurs were simply guilty of insubordination. Science, take notes.