Garrison Keiler Fart Jokes

ease up on the footloose dithering, child
diffuse your peripatetic pathologic peregrinating prediliction.
pathsore
leave off pandering life
don't you know you don't know what you aren't
won't find it on the face of the world

perish the polyfrenetic panzer attack on motion
assault stillness, grasp it, crush it

random selection from a box of particular old paperbacks' pages........................

"...worlds, the fulcrum which balances the stars and the light dreams and the machines lighter than and the lightweight limbs and the explosives that produced them. In that crack I would like to penetrate up to the eyes, make them waggle then will I hear again Dostoevski's words, hear them rolling on page after page, with minutest observation, with maddest introspection, with all the undertones of misery now lightly, humorously touched, now swelling like an organ note until the heart bursts and there is nothing left but a blinding, scorching light, the radiant light that carries off the fecundating seeds of the stars. the story of art whose roots lie in massacre.
When I look down itno this fucked-out cunt of a whore I feel the whole world beneath me, a world tottering and crumbling, a world used up and polished like a leper's skull. If there were a man who dared to say all that he thought of this world there would not be left him a square foot of ground to stand on. When a man appears the world bears down on him and breaks his back. There are always too many rotten pillars left standing, too much festering humanity for man to bloom. The superstructure is a lie and the foundation is a huge quaking fear. If at intervals of centuries there does appear a man with a desperate, hungry look in his eyes, a man who would turn the world upside down in order to create a new race, the love that he brings to the world is turned to bile and he becomes a scourge. If now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with his back up, a man whose only defenses left are his words and his words are always stronger that the lying, crushing weight of the world, stronger than all the racks and wheels which the cowardly invent to crush out the miracle of the personality. If any man ever dared to translate all that is in his heart, to put down what is really his experience, what is truly his truth, I think then the world would go to smash, that it would be blown to..."

Tropic of Cancer, p. 224