Forgotten History, Episode I

Many of you enjoyed my "goofy" piece, "FORGOTTEN HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY" , so I decided to write a prequel...

Forgotten History, Episode 1

Some of you have read the Forgotten History of Philosophy wherein perhaps I was much too critical of History and her shameless disregard for her lesser children. I am ashamed to say that I have wounded History, for she came to me distressed in a dream last night. She claimed I could not place all the blame for those forgotten souls at her tired feet, “there is only so much time, and so much to do, and some simply fall through the smallest of cracks.”

And she went on to describe a time long ago, when, as just a babe, she could not keep proper score. Though she did keep cryptic notes which she freely shared. She urged me to re-credit her for a valiant effort, and handed me a soiled Wet-Wipe with her puzzling notes. If it were not for my experience as an historical philosopher, and on-the-field training as a father of three, I may never have decrypted those earliest of notes, “aye xi caca me, pooie, ayea yuk, pthew, aahhh!, aahhh!”, which so valiantly described the father of all knowledge.

So, with my best foot forward, and the other still asleep, I had no choice but to fall flat on my face. “Aye xi caca me, pooie, ayea yuk, pthew, aahhh!, aahhh!”, so well said indeed, as She spoke of those days when the sun followed dark, for what it thought was a two week gig.

Aahhh, Aahhh (no last name on record), born September 24, 1, lived in a dark cave most of his life, except for a short glimmer of fire that lit a path to his afterlife.

Although not a philosopher himself, it is recorded he spawned the original seed of wisdom, though he failed to water it regularly. Recluse and mute for most of his life, he uttered not a word, until that fateful day, when his wife discovered fire and handed it to him as a gift. In a display of great pleasure, as the notes vaguely say, he waved his burning hands to God, and cried out his own name, for the very first time, "Aahhh, Aahhh!".

In a topping score of gratitude, he went on to name his wife and his first born son that day. He lived but a short life thereafter, making a simple living as a klogger, but leaving a satisfactory pittance to his wife, Ugodambich and his eldest son, WhataUlafinat.

WhataUlafinat fathred one good son, and a few that didn't count.

WhataUlafinat, armed with his father’s small pittance, married a blind woman with one good eye, which she dutifully kept in her back pocket. She kept it in memory of her darling Chihuahua, who popped it lovingly onto her lap on the day she delivered the seed of her neighbors frisky Great Dane. WhataUlafinat, and his blind wife, Wachout (whom he lovingly referred to as, I’moverheer), begot mostly insensitive stares until the birth of their son, Yme.

As tradition required, Yme carried his grandmother’s name as his own, as well as a dried-up piece of dung in his left pocket. So, this first born son, Yme Ugodambich, indeed the first philosopher of record, took to his pensive life after a failed attempt at politics. He had nearly enough votes to win, but, when they called for a show of hands, the elders disqualified his dead father’s proxy submission.

Yme Ugodambich lived in Perplexity, a nice suburb of Denial, until the day he died.

Yme was a man of thought, just one thought, bestowed to him by his mother, and it lasted him a lifetime. He pondered on it until the day he unexpectedly walked into the next life off the same cliff his mother had taken some years earlier, when, engrossed in the same thought, her first foot faltered and the rest of her followed in shame.

Before his death, however, Yme achieved great things, if one keeps proper perspective – we must remember, these were early times, and men were, well, how do you say, dense. Of the four genes that Aahhh passed onto WhataUlafinat, WhataUlafinat squandered two and passed only reclusion and a heart murmur to Yme. Yme took most closely to reclusion and lived most of his life in a cave. Well, of-course, so did everyone else, but he was different, he never came out and was often heard murmuring back to his heart.

It is also said he never once dusted. This is not to say that he wasn’t fastidious about his hygiene. His neighbors often commented on how clean his teeth were, and how he took great care to line them up so neatly every night, by the dent on the cave wall, which was the only remaining impression of his blind mother.

Little did his contemporaries know. Really. Little did his contemporaries know - that this dusty recluse was establishing the groundwork for some of History’s greatest triumphs.

Yme’s early study of dust settlement as a predictive measure was, well, nonsense, but it did raise the bar for those many other great thinkers to come.

Socrates, in his day, is said to have attempted to revive the studies on the predictive powers of dust, including his early work, “the Inhalation of Dust and Predictive Choking,” and the little known work, authored just weeks before his incarceration, which he playfully referred to as, “What’s this,” as he pointed his finger at the chest of his baffled teacher, Plato, proceeding to flick it upwards onto his nose, as the puzzled Plato looked down.

Plato, of course, did not take kindly to this mockery and did not sleep with his student until Socrates made his famous public “Apology,” wherein Socrates defended his methods, including the compulsory schoolboy attire of knee-high socks and miniskirts. But enough about Plato and Socrates and the young Greek boys in white pleated skirts that eventually became his downfall.

Let’s see, what were we talking about Ugodambitch, no?, Yme?, yes, that’s right, let’s go back to Yme.

So, Yme Ugodambich, recluse as he was, did receive lady friends. Before conjugal visits he was sometimes seen brushing his teeth and lining then up neatly once again, this time in his mouth. And thus, Yme begot Utoo, who begot Wazenme, who is said to have begotten the bastard Oozmydadi. Oozmydadi was, in-fact, not illegitimate, but just a bastard. And, as he so proudly proclaimed, one hand behind his bent back and one hand to fan his twelve inch forehead, begot Ugatabekydin, the young girl who attended school with the neighbor of Aristotle’s best friend’s second cousin’s dentist.

Ah, History, how you come to weave such tight fabric of relation, like a long woolen scarf knitted by a thousand monkeys, as they say. Well, maybe they don’t say that anymore, but I assure you, they used to say something darn close to that, “even a thousand monkeys weaving wool can write a novel,” isn’t that what they say, well, anyway, I must go feed my monkeys.

TaTa.

No, no, that’s not goodbye, TaTa is what it says here in young History’s soiled notes, quite frankly, I have no idea what it means. Perhaps its just gibberish, which I truly hate to believe, as it would throw into question Her other brilliant edicts to which I have devoted so much time, well, perhaps too much time.

History’s notes are sketchy at this point, for she was reaching puberty and maturing much too fast, taking a liking to boys and failing miserably in her duties. And there was little in the way of supervision. Her twin sister Destiny, who is said to have been straight laced and with her future in mind, did little to stop History from burning a trail. As for mother Time, forgetaboutit, she wouldn’t give those girls a minute. Therefore, at this point I am forced to rely on those earliest of records, the documentary.


Dikklark, born, December 22, 2, died, never. He did not take to music or bloopers until after the riots of 13, prior to which he was a producer of mildly amusing documentaries and a part-time klogger.

Dikklark’s true-life documentaries include WhataUlafinat’s tear jerking biography, “Aahhh you my daddy?” and the controversial, “Wachout, Ugodambich, A family in strife.”

There are those who believe that his final documentary, a social examination entitled, “Uga, Buga, what the hell is that, talk already,” led to the bloody riots of 13, though, to this day, few speak of it.

In those early days, Dik, as they called him, was followed always by a scribe, who shadow-wrote Dik’s Truth based documentary column, “Dik’s Scribe.” It was perhaps Dik’s straight-up column that first brought attention to him, but more importantly, it brought attention to military philosophy and strategy, in an outstanding piece, on that General of Generals, Malodorous.

Malodorous, a master of military strategy and detonation devices, was born on January 15, 5, and lived on a strict diet of fava beans and cabbage, until he exploded on March 12, 58.

Malodorous is described as the father of military strategy and the inspiration for the earliest ground to air missiles. Said to be a man of great command, except for his gaseous excretions, Malodorous spent a life dispensing odors (I think She means orders). His life of efficiency and influence was so aptly captured in Dik’s piece, “Cut to the Chase.” This much acclaimed treatise on military tactics was unfortunately spoiled by his many critics who, misquoting the intention, coined it, “Cut the Cheese.” Malodorous became deeply depressed and took to eating great quantities as an escape.

After the explosion, there was little anyone cared to keep, but for a few snippets entitled, “dialogue: Malodorous/Dik.”

History fondly remembers that first exchange, at Malodorous’ retreat on Potpourri Lane. The Scribe wrote it verbatim, “Whew, it smells! Did somebody die in here and not get eaten?”, to which Malodorous, missing the nuance, responded “You have much to learn my friend, smell is one of the first senses to go when you die, indeed it goes right after the sense of standing up.” It was widely believed at the time that standing up was the fourth sense, in-fact, not replaced by the sense of taste until decades later, when bellbottoms gave way to slim-fit leopard skin.

And thus it was written in the Scribe’s first published cave.

I fear, again, I have outstepped my bounds, and have taken you clearly to where you would rather not be. And so, my deepest apology to friend and foe, I will fold these remaining notes and off I go.


If you like this, try some of the other funny stuff in my folder "The Lighter Side of Life" .


PRD 12/01