The reason I avoid drinking alcohol and doing drugs is because I just know I’d wake up one morning and be like:
me: What’s that on my arm?
elephant: A tattoo.
me: I got that last night?
elephant: Yup.
me: What’s a tattoo of some guy’s head doing on my arm?
okapi: It’s a tattoo of Gene Simmons.
me: Who’s Gene Simmons?
dancing bear: He’s a guitarist from the rock band Kiss.
me: Oh. Do I like Kiss?
a tree: Go back to sleep. It’s all in your mind.
The other day, I was examining a girl’s arm and wondering: Is that an abstract representation of an umlaut, or a pointy dolphin? Her arm was, coincidentally, right next to her breasts. And I was also wondering: are her boobs really bigger than her head, or is it just an optical illusion and is her head actually bigger than her right boob? And how can she stand if her right boob alone is twice the size of her head, and the pull of earth’s gravity is a grueling 9.8 meters per second squared?
In any case, if I’m going to have some manner of image on my body, I would prefer it to be a dragon snaking its way down my back, its mouth opening up at my butt so that every time I poop I can pretend that poop is coming out of the dragon’s mouth. I would rather it be a colorful birthmark than a tattoo though.
Back to that girl with the enormous boobs: could she store a brain in each boob, including the one in her head, for a total of three brains? Two brain-boobs and one head-brain. And if she had a total of three brains, could she utilize all three of the brains at once? Because once she attempted thought, each of the brains would simply prove redundant in the task. The reason being that it is not possible for the mind to consciously separate and distinguish between the portions of the brain (or brains, or individual boob-brains, as the case may be) that it wishes to utilize in order to accomplish separate mental tasks, as they would all be operating in unison, simply making the two boob-brains redundant redundancies.
Not unless she is somehow able to wire each brain to a specific task and have each brain recognize itself in relation to the other brains so that, for instance, in one brain she may solve a problem geometrically, while in another she may tackle it algebraically. Whereas otherwise, the brains would simply serve a redundant function, unable to determine which one is in action toward what end. Thus, while the girl decides to put her head and two boobs to use by attempting to follow three different thought processes or patterns, analyzing three differing sets of input, neither boobs nor head would in fact realize which task they themselves have been slated to accomplish, all proceeding to follow in unison as a singular entity, unaware of the fact that they are each actually performing the same function redundantly. Indeed, neither boobs nor head would even be able to successfully distinguish which of the brains they are.
To my recollection, philosophers have argued over just such a dilemma.
Put together, the enormously bulbous processing power of the boobs would, quite clearly, if harnessed, overshadow the relatively meager power of the head. A seemingly idle assertion, I know, but quite a potent one as will soon be proven. For if this challenge of regulating multiple brains were somehow met, boobs would possibly become the key to preventing evolutionary stagnation.
Imagine a cow so brilliant it could shame any human mind. Imagine dogs, one day, harnessing us in leashes and scooping up our poop! Our simple brains might not be capable of perceiving the irony, but the newfound enlightenment achieved by multi-breasted females would suddenly allow them to realize us as having become to them what was hitherto the mental equivalent of dogs eating their own poop.
Only, in our simple-mindedness, we would completely lack the ability to recognize the quality in us that is so fond of eating poop because recognition of the dimension we are eating poop on is simply beyond our possibility of grasping. Much like the single-brain male dog, who (in his own plane of rationale) delights in a sumptuous feast of his own steaming poop, we would look upon him and laugh while, ironically, digging into bowls of our own delectable poop, while multi-breasted female dogs overlooked the whole debacle, wondering how we could all possibly be so stupid.
This would (of course) simply leave multi-breasted females to lean toward lesbianism in a desperate attempt to detach themselves from their shameful origins. Perhaps even left to evolve into a pack of asexual SuperBeings with their number of breast increasing at a wildly exponential rate.
And that’s why I avoid alcohol and drugs. Because I don’t want to wake up with a hangover and a tattoo of Gene Simmons (a guitarist for the rock band Kiss) on my arm, and a race of female SuperBeings running the Universe. Because I’m going to have a hard enough time contending with them in my normal capacity without having to barf up poop every few minutes.
Yet, in this inevitable age of multi-breasted poly-brained SuperBeings, I suppose one thing is for certain: smart is sexy.
