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Jack Handey

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If you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, let 'em go, because man, they're gone.
--
Deeper Thoughts : All New, All Crispy (1993) ISBN 1-56282-840-1

 
Jack Handey

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The floor is lava! That's the lava game, when you pretend that the floor is lava and you climb up on all the furniture. I see some of you don't get that. I don't care, that's okay. You might have called it something else, but it meant the same thing; you were poor. I'd tell my mom, "I want a Nintendo." and she'd reply "The floor is lava!" "What's wrong with our house? Why can't we afford better carpeting? It's called two jobs, bitch!" That's how I used to talk. I was very street.

 
Daniel Tosh
 

One day I had painted a bunch of keys on a canvas, my bunch of keys. I didn’t know what to put next to them. I needed something that would be the absolute opposite of a bunch of keys. So when I finished work I went out. I had only walked a few yard when what should I see in a shop windows? A postcard of the Mona Lisa! At once I knew that was what I needed; what could have made a greater contrast to the keys?. ..Then I also added a can of sardines. It was such a strong contrast. (on his painting ‘La Joconde aux Clés’)

 
Fernand Leger
 

Is that an ear trumpet in your lava-lava?

 
Kerry Jackson
 

The river of my title is a river of DNA, and it flows through time, not space. It is a river of information, not a river of bones and tissues.

 
Richard Dawkins
 

I know myself as mortal, but this raises the question: "What is I?" Am I an individual, or am I an evolving life stream composed of countless selves? … As one identity, I was born in AD 1902. But as AD twentieth-century man, I am billions of years old. The life I consider as myself has existed though past eons with unbroken continuity. Individuals are custodians of the life stream — temporal manifestations of far greater being, forming from and returning to their essence like so many dreams. … I recall standing on the edge of a deep valley in the Hawaiian island of Maui, thinking that the life stream is like a mountain river — springing from hidden sources, born out of the earth, touched by stars, merging, blending, evolving in the shape momentarily seen. It is molecules probing through time, found smooth-flowing, adjusted to shaped and shaping banks, roiled by rocks and tree trunks — composed again. Now it ends, apparently, at a lava brink, a precipitous fall.
Near the fall's brink, I saw death as death cannot be seen. I stared at the very end of life, and at life that forms beyond, at the fact of immortality. Dark water bent, broke, disintegrated, transformed to apparition — a tall, stately ghost soul emerged from body, and the finite individuality of the whole becomes the infinite individuality of particles. Mist drifted, disappeared in air, a vanishing of spirit. Far below in the valley, I saw another river, reincarnated from the first, its particles reorganized to form a second body. It carried the same name. It was similar in appearance. It also ended at a lava brink. Flow followed fall, and fall followed flow as I descended the mountainside. The river was mortal and immortal as life, as becoming.

 
Charles Lindbergh
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