The extent of silliness cannot be measured. Again, because otherwise it would not be silly. Borders are not silly, though they are absurd. Words themselves are not silly, though they may be used to silly effect. Governments are extremely silly, but only because they exist to continually expand their dominion.
The silliness of silliness likewise cannot be measured. This is not because otherwise it would not be silly, but because no one has yet invented an phluariometer. We’ve got top minds on it. It’s an extremely silly enterprise.
The consequences of silliness are more silliness. Most wars are silly; therefore expect lots of wars. Moreover, people are silly, ergo their favorite pastime. Anyone who tells you silliness is consequence-free will bear a most severe punishment.
It doesn’t make sense to say, “When people are silly—”. Instead, mention what happens when they are not silly. People will be impressed with your scholarship, not because they are silly, or because you or your scholarship is silly, but because no one has ever done this before.
Let me tell you a story.
When blessed with the revelation of silliness, I was accosted by the potent voice of slimy gefarbathings with fangs and large, bulbous excrescences—alike scaly and sharp—from which periodically (every tenth of the daylight period, winter and summer) emits two aerosols: one, a pleasing aroma much similar to Chanel No. 5 and cherries, and the other a noxious blend of conservatism and poverty. Many chance a sniff in hopes of gaining a lungful of irreproducible, ultrarare perfume—a fraction approaching half subsequently fall deathly ill, with some per cent succumbing to the mortal whiff—the thing being that gefarbathings travel quickly, and you have to pick your side and sniff to get the good stuff just as it passes, for the vortices flung off its scaly corpus thoroughly mix the aerosols a split-second later—and so some are cautious and only half-unscrew a single nostril—and some are overconfident or else crave extremes and so ope full bore their faces and suck with the base of their lungs—the former case advantaged over the latter by preventing the sniffer (had he chosen incorrectly) from inhaling a lethal dose—similarly outdone the other way by teasing the desire without satiating its cock.
Cocks are so-called not for the strutting, but because they exist in two states—in one of which the wind and the hair-trigger may combine to loose a torrent—a barrage—of population-reducing proportions. In the other, it may be safely handled, even by children, though I don’t recommend it, as you can never know precisely whether a cock is cocked or not, and you may shoot your eye out.
Eyes, Darwin wrote, though they appear designed and perfectly complex, nevertheless evolved by a series of fortuitous events selected for by a natural inclination toward fitness. We are also told by physicists that disorder is constantly increasing in the universe. So goes silliness, accrued by the inexorable decline of non-silly things down a steep descent into a briny pit.
It is not silly, the things that I write. It is silly that anyone should read them. Should continue to read them, is the thing.
Paragraphs likewise may be silly, but only to the extent that a piece’s division into them may make it easier to understand.
But yea this is the fool’s understanding—for a full comprehension of the world entails one to know silliness, and silliness is a shy girl indeed. She will no your every attempt to know her, and emphatically deny any back way to knowledge.
The solution is multitudinous apprehension—which enlightened despots have launched against their mutinously unsilly people for centuries—which our Exalted Shrub like a fly-trap uses like his left hand to masturbate. And in all this apprehension, the vision of the truth may appear, most likely to a cracker in a cracker—though sightings to assholes in assholes are most likely underreported.
And where is the silliness in this? It is in the commerce, how people buy in or sell out. Good commercials are not silly; bad commercials are simply pathetic. But all commercials are silly in one way, and you may learn that way if you keep reading.
Coca-Cola is as close to a universal solvent as we are likely to get. Sadly, my girlfriend finds it is not a decent contraceptive; and so I find we are silly.
Contras are late-term contraceptives. Bombs, gunfire, and conservatism prevent fetuses from living past their mid-20s.
Silliness is biased toward the silly, because silly is good. It may do harm, but it does more good than harm. In this way it is better than God.
I met a philosopher-theologian on the road to Catawba whom I told about silliness, about it being better than God. He complained that silliness is only a chimeric construct of idleness and fancy. I could have answered that so was God, but instead I told him I had fucked his mother the other day, and now she was no longer a lesbian.
Something related to silliness is ineptitude, in that it is not a state but a way of life. The existence of ineptitude is taken as proof of the existence of silliness, much as murder, rape, war, pestilence, and fundamentalists prove God.
But while there is a lot of proof for God, I can get way more wasted on silliness. Plus, no hangover if you drink pickle juice and sleep on a bed of nails.
The problem with silliness is that it lurks subtly out of our reach until we turn our backs, at which time it shoots between our legs. Silliness is thus like a greased pig, and woe betide him who doesn’t make the pig squeal.
Genitals are silly to those who don’t have them. The alienation of genitals is reponsible for much silliness in the human race.
Cunts may be in one of two states as well. They may be ready or they may be mercantile. The illusion of women is mercantilism, the fresh, clean, trimmed, neatly bacon-stripped merchandise on the high shelf behind the bare-titted marketing poster. The ready cunt manifests a sopping transformation, wet, gorged, glistening, almost crackling with anticipation—a desperate, serous pink—it is the non-literary acknowledgement of the mythology of women, far more powerful than “Celia shits!”
My buddy Joel Schulster, veteran punk, turned anarchist and decided to walk around the world, obeying no obstacles. He planned to plumb the depths of the sea, to stare down startled families seated to dinner, to brave faceless avalanches. He was killed in a misunderstanding with a bank guard a half-mile from his home, trying to walk through the vault. In his defense, he started from the bar a block away from his house—he did end up making it a whole kilometer.
Let me tell you what silliness ain’t.
I once hung out with two homosexuals from Kent who had matching pink pistols. They once had to gun down a drunken maniac who had burst into their club with an explosive vest on, screaming “Kill the queers!” The man had customized and sold them each their pistols. Gunning him down brought the two closer together in love. I was that explosive vest.
Once I received a blowjob from a woman who was a former girlfriend while steaming up the Caracalla River. We were on the deck and were disturbed only by the river dolphins coming noisily up for air. I did not want the blowjob. I was mentally ill.
In the corners of the dankest recesses of the mind, most men find at least one of their cousins sort of cute. In front of that, holding up a towel, is the thought of a trusting adolescent friend-of-the-family reaching the age of consent and opening her flower. The towel is red and bandilleros be damned, the men charge at it.
Relationships may be silly, but only to the extent that they really are sincere. Hence, most are pretty serious.
The opposite of silliness, incidentally, is not seriousness. It is silliness. It is self-contradicting. Contradictions are not male contraceptives—in fact, males get along quite well with as many contradictions on their brains as ticks on feral dogs. A symbiosis is hypothesized.
Prophecy is for losers. It is unfortunately not silly.
I fucked your mom last night. Now she can’t get enough. And we’re silly.
As Deconstruction is for Pussies We’ll Proceed with Demolition
Aesthetics, besides being a silly term, is a silly conglomeration of ideas. Therefore, it is imperfectly suited to our task.
This manifesto may be said to comply with a certain aesthetic. The stylings of a truly masterful farter comply with a different, but similar aesthetic. Literature, music, and art comply with a single aesthetic that has been done to death.
The commonality to aesthetics, then, is outpouring. As much as has been made of Pollack’s methods, it must be granted they were aesthetic. As pornography has discovered for us, only cocked cocks are aesthetic, as are ready cunts—the so-called Old Masters having delivered, like the modern corporate media, only sanitary images with very little true outpouring, emotional or otherwise.
The aesthetics of pornography are practical where those of literature, art, and music are magical. Magic died out for many people in Salem. For others, with Princess Di. Magic, not being silly, has not been doing a whole lot of reproduction lately.
Literature, art, and music are the LAM. Only the LAM’s blood can wash us clean. You can guess of what it consists.
Dangling prepositions may be aesthetic, but frequently are simply stupid. The distinction is only clear to advanced aesthetes, who unfortunately make far less than advanced athletes, and hence carry around crowbars for currency. They tell the police that the hobbled grocer was their latest performance art piece.
Athleticism borrows from artistry like politics borrows from intelligence. Ditto celebrity. They are like moss, and painstakingly cultivate a smooth, shiny surface. The problem with surfaces is that they have no thickness, and thick chicks need lovin’ too.
What feminism has to offer the world is clear: what my step-son the philosopher-theologian called the gift of religion: “Yet more ways to make you less happy.” To its detriment, feminism offers some of the fewest ways to make you less happy of any ismology. Except for sillyism. It’s got a chastity-belt on happiness.
Genital mutilation has got to stop. It’s simply not aesthetic. Wholesale excisions cannot hope to be artistic. On-sale excisions may hope, but snowballs in hell and all that. Augmentation is the way to go. More and better ways to make you less happy, rather than fewer impediments to misery, is the aesthetic way. Well, the baroque way. The operatic way.
The magnum opus of each person is stupidity. This is a result of human beings’ natural tension between rights and duties. They have a duty not to be stupid, but a right to pour out their inner essences.
(That is the mechanism of death—they are simply tossed aside like used whipped-cream canisters. Some are yet hoarded like used needles. Recycling is silly.)
Warrior-Poets and Philosopher-Kings
Once I was induced to eat shrimp-toast, which is a gastrosauric genetic abomination of both shrimp and toasted bread. The food was eh but the culinary hubris, the acting out of God’s role in food service, I found very nearly silly.
Thomas Seamus Beckett d’Arcy von Aufsberger was a warrior-poet of the old guard whom I knew from both sides of his vocation. Non-specialization had made him a hack at both; but poetical critics who couldn’t feel the soul in his writing felt the spine of a sharp-edged sword running through it instead, and thus the penetrating verse of von Aufsberger grew in renown.
Some Words on the Science
There is a science devoted to the silly: Phluariology. There are many subfields and lots is imperfectly understood. It’s not silly, despite being about silliness. Metasilliness, within the Aesthetics of Silliness, is simply not tolerated. Those people are just plain bad.
Phluariology attempts to describe, delimit, and explain silliness. It’s a noble attempt but Good Luck, Guys. If silliness ends up being readily known, it will cease to be silly, and all of phluariology will be in a split-second completely wrong. It’ll end up chasing sillinesses like dogs chase tails. In retrospect, this isn’t a bad gig for phluariologists, who are generally silly people.
The fact that there will always be a silliness should not surprise. Silliness is less a tangible thing than a vacuole, or an abscess. When you push on it, it moves. Many people have tried to deflate silliness, only to fail. They don’t realize the act itself is silly, and blows up the balloon even more.
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