Looking for God is like looking for Waldo in a Waldo painting with no Waldo in it. That makes me wonder. And I don’t normally resign myself to doing that. But wondering is scab-like. The more you pick it, the more it bleeds, so the bleeding in my brain has brought me to this question (for myself): if there was such a psychotic and tormenting book, where there a thousand Waldo paintings with no Waldo, would children still play it if they were told Waldo was there, although they never found him? As long as they believed in Waldo, would they continue looking? I imagine that tedious childhood game takes on a psychotic perspective when you view it as an adult, but imagine the challenge to a child! Hell, I’m sure the child I was, would still be playing that shit, had it existed. Imagine the challenge! You have to find something that… isn’t there! That sounds like an amazing game to me. I can see it now; it’d be perfect: a new omnibus collection of the classic game, re-released for only the hyper-intelligent: one thousand seventy-five inch Where’s Waldo paintings with not a Waldo in them. Of course, the directions would intimate the remoteness of the possibility of someone finding Waldo, due to the difficulty of the game. But, we’d have to make it less fraudulent, and less psychotic. The book cover should be arranged as to only resemble Waldo the further you get away from it. Say, at thirty feet away from it, one could find Waldo. I believe the same could be true of God. God and Where’s Waldo? are inextricably linked in circles of modern philosophy, as it demonstrates a link of similar human behavior. I guess the players of the original game held an unfair advantage of all the old philosopher’s looking for God because Waldo was there on every page. At thirty feet away, Waldo could be seen. How many would step that far back to look at something so much more apparent at a distance? The most astute of them would get closer and closer; only the truly insane would be imaginative enough to gradually consider the insanity behind the thought experiment. I wonder how many of the hyper-intelligent bipeds would find Waldo in such a manner. Salvador Dali would find it. That’s for certain.
I might have to propose this to some asshole in a smug suit at some whorehouse publisher before Apple turns it into something fancy that makes noise and fifty million dipshits buy it because their friends have it, and by God, if the fucking friend has it, how can one justify not having it? Other people have it!
As for this psychological torture device game, for children, it’d have to be less daunting of a task. It’d just be a normal book, Where’s Waldo, and no one would clue them in on the joke. This could occupy those little assholes more than the stupid shit on Nickelodeon and MTV.
I’ve noticed that the look of a normal human being while under the influence of LSD is no different than the look of a child while watching Sponge Bob. The hallucinatory demented shit fest that is sponge bob is a daily requirement in my house, as my son likes to trip digital balls. He has the same look on his face as those with psychedelic lubricant on their brain. It’s just something I noticed and felt I would share. Dr. Phil, before the restraining order and court and attempted murder business, told me to express myself. But what if expressing oneself is contrary to you continuing to be alive, Doctor? If I expressed myself, I’d behead that fat smug fuck on national TV and then feed his corpulent ass to that empty headed windbag, Oprah. If I ever got to go on that show, I’d tell her … well, ran into a wall. I’ll have to consider this. Somehow, hypothetically, I manage to get on the Oprah Winfrey show. What would the show be called? Professional paranoid schizophrenics and their influential, broad ideas! Here’s my fucking broad idea, Oprah, you jolly lolling bitch: buy me a car, a typewriter, a new guitar, some printer paper, eight ballpoint pens, and a hardback copy of Lolita and allow me to drive to the show and read it live, to the better home and garden Americans whose opinions come in the same manner as a bag of chips come at a snack machine. Tune in. Here are your new opinions for today: cheese is the second coming of Jesus: periodically running into a brick wall can be a form of therapy for people suffering from anorexia.
Anorexia, what a stupid fucking anti-evolutionary disease. Is it not counter-productive to the furthering evolution of our species to allow those too stupid to realize the value of nutrition to continue producing likewise detrimental children? Save the human race; strangle anorexics.
I’m Brandon Nobles, and I approve this message.