Books with title Of Pranksters, Eight: A Tapestry of Twisted Threads in Folio

Everyone loves a good joke, but nobody enjoys being subjected to the fun. Pranks are an especially childish form of delight, perhaps because they are the ultimate expression of prurient sadism, which we must disavow as civilized adults.We, the same civilized adults who teach our beloved youth the art of warfare while stockpiling an obscene surplus of thermonuclear weapons. Now, that is funny!So, tease a guilty moment to titillate your secret sadist today. Giggling, it whispers. Of spoiled affluence and nothing better to do; of grotesque victimization that makes monsters from innocent children; of twisted perspectives that render terrible things laughable and of all the bent human beings that make life fun; of deliberate malefactors unknown and ne’er-do-well caretakers on duty; of social misfits tasked by god, and of clever young men directing hidden cameras; such twisted threads weave life’s strange tapestry. Of pranks, here find countless examples, and of pranksters, eight.

Champions come in all shapes and forms. The same is true of cowards. Most of us line up somewhere between these two extremes of potential, but none of us eagerly anticipate having to prove ourselves in a crossfire.In fact, most notable acts of heroism are not the results of well-considered, carefully laid plans. Rather, these are often spontaneous yet deliberate demonstrations of selflessness occasionally on display when normal human beings must confront life-threatening risk.Take a deep, calming breath now, before you dare gaze into the face of death. Trembling, heed its heckling catcalls. Of broken people living broken lives; of ever hopeful children slowly ground into cynical adults beneath crushing realities; of good men trapped in bad places and of bad men working good deeds; of tangible human guilt and scatological human torment; such twisted threads weave life’s strange tapestries. Of redemptions failed or delivered, here find disturbing variations, and of heroes, none.

Disinfectants, detergents, insecticides, fungicides, herbicides and homicides – everything a human being needs to clear his or her lot and start fresh in life, clean and pure, and it all waits at the press of a finger. Some of us love a good disaster, but we watch from a safe distance and it always happens to someone else… somewhere else… never here. Never us.Distended bellies and skeletal children are always the misfortune of others. Stop and wonder why. The preferred answer no doubt leaps easily to mind, but the truth is probably quite different, because pestilence comes in all shapes, forms and fashions.Scratch a moment, since you itch, and listen to the incessant rasp of a gathering legion. It twitters. Of gnawing incisors and rapacious fangs; of chitinous exoskeletons and cellophane wings; of mutant monstrosities impossible to kill and of ancient evils never to be purged; of alien leviathans and endangered intellects kept in a multitude; of ravenous lunatics, and of raiding swarms; such twisted threads weave life’s strange tapestry. Of pests, here find a restive horde, and of plagues, ten.

Several of the best human hypocrisies are immortalized in catechisms. We say “violence never solved anything” when history repeatedly teaches us otherwise, and once we prematurely labeled an entire, global war as “The War to End All Wars” long before we recorded its half-formed outcome.Dynasties fall. Empires rise. In marble, granite and concrete, we immortalize these events, large and small, and we celebrate the human beings named heroes there. Rightly so.Pause a moment before The Wall – let your finger trace names in stone. From pits of despair and summits of glory, they report. Of the second war to end all wars and of its exhausted sire, empires’ executioner; of a fateful battle fought among history’s cruel, azure skies over vast seas named for peace; of one hateful corporal born to innocence yet destined to depravity; and of youth in war confronting the horror of slaughter in the name of sovereign vanity; such twisted threads weave life’s strange tapestry. Of warfare’s cold compassion, here find merest details, and of soldiers, six.

Mothers no longer name their sons ‘Adolph’. Almost everyone knows why.Though all innocent babes do not develop into monsters, all monsters develop from innocent babes. We prefer fiction to reality, because thoughts of the former easily yield to denials of reason, while the latter only reminds us of our common origins in the primitive.Steal a private moment now and listen to your inner voice. It whispers. Of rising mutant domination amid apocalyptic wastes; of grotesque human chimeras practicing ancient arts; of despicable capital criminals kept in unbreakable cages and of the flawed human beings who hunt them; of original sin and practical modern curse, and of chastisement before perverse gods; such twisted threads weave life’s strange tapestry. Of depravity, here find endless expositions, and of monsters, seven.

While the vast majority perishes in quiet anonymity, a tour of any national monument quickly reveals countless names carved into stone. These names generally identify three classes of people; scribe, conquered and conqueror.Indeed, if anything, life is an endless series of contests, large and small, but these stone-graven records typically ignore the latter for the former. Too often, history overlooks the struggles of mundanity, which perhaps better define those who endure.Pause a reflective moment to ponder the future, now – anticipate the boastful elite to be immortalized there. Seeking grandeur in concrete, granite and marble, they will tell. Of dystopias that replace individual freedoms with rigid social order; of government games in assassinations, abandonment, and espionage; of demented human beings living ordinary lives and of ordinary citizens forced into acts of depravity; of wars waged through time and space within the confines of a tormented human mind; such twisted threads weave life’s strange tapestry. Of mortal contests, here find many illustrations, and of victors, few.

Are we alone in the universe? To date, all indications tell us we are, in fact, the only intelligent form of life currently inhabiting our Milky Way Galaxy, at least.Aliens may survive in government laboratories, but they are naturally difficult to record with any convincing fidelity. Yet, yesterday’s far-out conspiracies too often become today’s startling headlines after a bit of unwanted exposure.Pause one moment now to take note of a shadow-bound summons. Your paranoid shade whispers. Of bright lights on calm nights; of tasks at hand delivered with a foreign understanding and unspeakable demands; of cosmic desperation in dying hopes; of patented cover-ups, government surveillance gone mad and invasions that challenge human imagination; of a future bound by irrepressible technological achievements, and of the hapless souls left to linger in the aftermath when it all goes wrong; such twisted threads weave life’s strange tapestries. Of sinister happenings, here find abundant evidence, and of aliens, eleven.

Tabloids invite us to gorge ourselves on tales of epic personal failures, and so many of us eagerly oblige. Guilty pleasures, we savor these stories most satisfactorily with a garnish of sex scandal, a dash of fiscal malfeasance and a generous dollop of social corruption.Next, we expect a weeping dessert of shame and regret to follow. Afterward, everything ends in a dumpster or the backseat of an aging sedan before we stagger home again, sated, smug and full of improving condemnations.Cup your ears and shade your eyes now. Peer into the gloom of your neighbor’s windows to eavesdrop. Of a malign understanding bent before a wickeder will; of lost nobodies disappeared into countless nowhere holes; of narcissistic egotism, neglectful self-absorption and conscienceless intellect; of evil embodied in mediocrity and of all the demonic power brokers that grind our bones; such twisted threads weave life’s strange tapestries. Of tragically flawed characters, here find deplorable examples, and of losers, legions.

While the vast majority perishes in quiet anonymity, a tour of any national monument quickly reveals countless names carved into stone. These names generally identify three classes of people; scribe, conquered and conqueror.Indeed, if anything, life is an endless series of contests, large and small, but these stone-graven records typically ignore the latter for the former. Too often, history overlooks the struggles of mundanity, which perhaps better define those who endure.Pause a reflective moment to ponder the future, now – anticipate the boastful elite to be immortalized there. Seeking grandeur in concrete, granite and marble, they will tell. Of dystopias that replace individual freedoms with rigid social order; of government games in assassinations, abandonment, and espionage; of demented human beings living ordinary lives and of ordinary citizens forced into acts of depravity; of wars waged through time and space within the confines of a tormented human mind; such twisted threads weave life’s strange tapestry. Of mortal contests, here find many illustrations, and of victors, few.

Champions come in all shapes and forms. The same is true of cowards. Most of us line up somewhere between these two extremes of potential, but none of us eagerly anticipate having to prove ourselves in a crossfire.In fact, most notable acts of heroism are not the results of well-considered, carefully laid plans. Rather, these are often spontaneous yet deliberate demonstrations of selflessness occasionally on display when normal human beings must confront life-threatening risk.Take a deep, calming breath now, before you dare gaze into the face of death. Trembling, heed its heckling catcalls. Of broken people living broken lives; of ever hopeful children slowly ground into cynical adults beneath crushing realities; of good men trapped in bad places and of bad men working good deeds; of tangible human guilt and scatological human torment; such twisted threads weave life’s strange tapestries. Of redemptions failed or delivered, here find disturbing variations, and of heroes, none.

Peddlers and snake oil, pimps and pornography, lunatics and paranoia... each pair travels the same darkened alleyways to service identical shadow-bound gates. We receive them by the backdoor, thank you, and always well into the evening.These are private matters undertaken and clearly marked by clandestine hush and furtive sidelong glance. Sometimes concealed in the open but more often hidden in a fog of disinformation, our every secret contains a kernel of truth wrapped within a burlap of proficient lies.Patience and due diligence may unwrap the enigma to decipher a hidden message, but let the interloper beware. Secrecy keeps company with slaughter. Of political overwatch run monstrously amok; of corrupt small-town cops playing god; of ancient treasures buried in the most obvious of sites, and of all the mysterious specters that play lethal games of government; such twisted threads weave life's strange tapestry. Of conspiracies, here find intriguing catalogs, and of conspirators, four.

Within each human being lingers a mischievous child, but each of us also cages an unformed primitive. We keep our individual id-monster within the tempered bars of civility, yet it remains our secret delight of a darkened, unobserved evening and we make it our fondest fetish at every available opportunity. No matter how mightily we struggle, history scrawls with endless tales of failed self-control, so each scandal both titillates and disgusts, depending upon personal sensibilities.Indulge your inner-beast. How it roars! Of broken souls crushed between despair and revenge; of normalcy redefined to openly mock rationality; of tormented logic that inevitably spawns the very demons it maligns, and of the lone eccentric behaving oddly among us; such twisted threads weave life's strange tapestry. Of abnormalities, here encounter a boggling assortment, and of deviants, five.