Jerry Fabin, see, comes home from first grade one day, with his little books under his arm, whistling merrily, and there, sitting in the dining room beside his mother, is this great aphid, about four feet high. His mother is gazing at it fondly.

“What’s happening?” little Jerry Fabin inquires.

“This here is your older brother,” his mother says, “who you’ve never met before. He’s come to live with us. I like him better than you. He can do a lot of things you can’t.”

And from then on, Jerry Fabin’s mother and father continually compare him unfavorably with his older brother, who is an aphid. As the two of them grow up, Jerry progressively gets more and more of an inferiority complex – naturally. After high school his brother receives a scholarship to college, while Jerry goes to work in a gas station. After that this brother the aphid becomes a famous doctor or scientist; he wins the Nobel Prize; Jerry’s still rotating tires at the gas station, earning a dollar-fifty an hour. His mother and father never cease reminding him of this. They keep saying, “If only you could have turned out like your brother.”

Without them, we poor slobs would be stuck listening to simple three-minute songs about love and friendship, never realizing that the real insights can be found in concept albums and woodwinds.

There are claims that since the year 320, every generation of the Rushdoony family has produced a Christian priest or minister.

Social Justice Warriors have plagued mankind for more than 150 years, but only in the last 30 years has their ideology become dominant in the West.

Thus are the dreams of a new world evoked by centuries of idealists in great revolutions magisterially reduced by the Bey to the wisdom of his febrile dream world.

Yes, the infamous Rybread Celsius, author of last year’s stunningly awful Punkirita Quest 1: Liquid and only slightly less awful Rippled Flesh.

They proceed to stack the salvaged paper debris into a biodegradable obelisk, which they then ferry around the festival, clutched to their chest like a baby made from dead trees.

Whereas screaming the word “vagina” will sound like a warlord’s trumpet in his ear of the modern man, and he rides to battle, banners bravely waving.

My slumbers were haunted by dreams of pirate yachts flying the Jolly Roger, on which the skull and crossbones melted grotesquely into a wedding-ring and a true lovers’ knot.

According to a presentation at the 1995 conference of the Association of Asian Studies, Moncado “boasted – among his qualifications for drafting a constitution for this new nation – a low golf handicap, the power to heal the sick, and an ability to fly. To restrain the potential embarrassment of his messianic outbursts, the elite politicians in charge appointed Moncado as the Convention’s ‘Official Time Keeper’ and seated him beside a large clock whose black sweep hands against a white face seemed the very symbol of modernity, precision, and power. Taking his office seriously, Moncado attended every session in utter silence until a speaker exceeded his time and then, invested with the power of his office, cut the miscreant off mid sentence, no matter how prominent or powerful. Whatever contribution Moncado may have made to the Constitution’s punctuality, the burden of office restrained him from making any input into the social or ethical concerns of the impoverished Cebuano constituents who worshipped him as prophet and elected him to express their hopes for social justice.”