It's a thousand pages give or take a few . . .3番

Now Thomas is an average man. This, of course, means that his life is as totally devoid of meaning as anything can be and not be the subject of a Sylvester Stallon movie. To most of the universe this is exactly as it should be. “Let humans and other spoiled little twits worry about things like existential angst. I’ve got better things to do,” is pretty much the general attitude. But to Humans, alone among all the different forms of living things in the universe, this lack of Meaning is an outrage. It is clearly a case of incompetence, questionable management, or at the very least it is very, very impolite on somebody’s part; and this indignation has led, given the nature of the species, to the creation of the world’s oldest profession.


It is a popular belief, fostered primarily by less that sympathetic wives and one or two Biblical references, that prostitution is the world’s oldest profession. This is not quite true. Even if you include the subcategory of politics, prostitution is a relatively recent, albeit climactic, specialization within the oldest profession which over the centuries has gone by the various titles of witchcraft, psychology, philosophy, religion, astrology, and, more recently, channeling and psychic hot-line host. For when faced with the yawning reply of “So what?” to the proudly primal scream of “I exist!” mankind, with the full co-operation if not insistence of womankind, promptly set about creating the business of inventing a Meaning for Life; and from the beginning there have been countless individuals more than willing to make a rather indecent living, usually tax free, by selling any of the One, True Answers.

The second, unrecorded inventing of a One, True Answer took place several eons ago while our ancestors were still hanging about the savanna wondering why the baboons got all the breaks. Baboons could run really, really fast; they had really big sharp, pointy teeth that would come in handy when the neighborhood lion was acting out her hunger; and on top of it all, they had those really cool blue and red rumps. All the poor almost-humans had was the vague beginnings of a forehead and a sort of chin; and if they needed anything sharp and pointy they had to find the right kind of stick and rub it on a rock.

Then one day Snoog, who up to that time had somehow managed to never contribute anything to the tribe’s well being, came to the leaders of the tribe with a truly amazing offer. He would, he said, personally intervene with The Great and Terrible Hhragch on the tribe’s behalf. This, he said, would guarantee good hunting and co-operative wives and warmer nights. All the tribe had to do was give The Great and Terrible Hhragch, through his agent Snoog, a small, almost unnoticeable portion of everything the tribe ever owned—say ten per cent—and follow a few hundred simple rules The Great and Terrible Hhragch would occasionally issue—again through his agent Snoog.

The tribe mulled it over and said it was a swell offer and thanks awfully, but they’d just as soon give it a miss. Nothing against The Great and Terrible Hhragch — they were sure he was a great guy and all, pity about the name though, and a nifty whatever it was Snoog was going on about—but they preferred to make their bargains with beings they could see, hear, talk to directly and—and this was the vitally important part—poke sharp sticks into if need be. They also, after reflecting on Snoog’s past contribution to the tribe—none—and the way clay was always falling off his mate’s face and injuring the young and how Snoog spent an awful lot of time eating those over-ripe berries that made the bears act so funny, decided that Snoog might like trying to introduce The Great and Terrible Hhragch to some of the other tribes on the savanna.

A few of the more likely directions he could try were pointed out to him with some of the sharper sticks the tribe had at the moment, and Snoog became the Earth’s second itinerate preacher. The Earth’s first itinerate preacher made the mistake of starting with grazing animals and a herd of wildebeest stampeded over him before he could finish explaining how the Really Neat Thloydd would lead them to grass that had never been shit on if they would only make a few tiny, little sacrifices.

It should be pointed out that while One, True Answers have usually had a market value of anywhere between a dime a dozen and your entire life savings as a love offering; Questions, especially those having to do with the validity of the currently fashionable One, True Answer, have almost always gone for something a bit over prime rate. Being tied to a soon to be burning stake being the norm.

This is why if you ask a passing wildebeest, “What is your purpose in the universe?” he, or she, will snort the wildebeest equivalent to “Push off,” and get back to the truly relevant business of eating grass and dodging lions. If you persist in badgering the poor animal to justify its existence he, or she, will eventually call the authorities and have you removed, or stampede the herd over you. Having several thousand wildebeest stomp you into the savanna is a fairly effective way of ending pointless debates which is why you rarely see Jehovah Witnesses bothering wildebeest.

If, however, you asked the next human being that comes your way, “Why are you here,” that person will try his or her hardest to come up with a answer. After all, they are so amazingly wonderful there must be a pretty damned good reason, and if they can’t come up with a reason right away they’ll tell you there is one, and it’s a really good one, but with aerobics, breaking in the new secretary, and other pressing matters they seem to have forgotten it. The reader should remember, however, that if you ask this question late at night in a major metropolitan alley or side street you stand a very good chance of finding out that your interviewee’s reason for being is, “To relieve fecal-cephalics,” or words to that effect, “of all their money.”

Other, even more dangerous types will tell you it’s the other way ‘round, and their existence gives meaning to the universe; but they soon go into life-style consulting, advertising, politics, or fashion design and cease to be of any real concern to anyone slightly brighter than a flatworm. Those with truly swollen egos become dictators in emerging third world countries, or join the faculty at the local community college.