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Banbury Cross

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Post details: Surgeon General's Warning

Surgeon General's Warning

Bullshitting may be hazardous to your health.

There used to be times when people said what they meant and they meant what they said. Times when words didn't have expiration date. But those times went with John Wayne and Katherine Hepburn. Nowadays, in the era of rampant political correctness, irrelevant chit-chat and mindless head games, straight talk is as common on this planet as flip-flops in an Eskimo shoe store.

Bullshitting may be the survival skill in the swamp of high politics, but on a personal level it comes with a hefty price tag. Any time your words are less than sincere, any time your smile doesn't come from the heart, a small toxic cloud is released into your psyche. A cloud that slowly poisons whatever is alive inside you. That seems to be one of those little safety valves of evolution that equally punishes all the critters frequenting the Temple of Bogus, from small time bullshitters, who will butter you up preemptively, just in case they'd need something later on, all the way up to the major league players, who can perjure themselves in front of the Grand Jury without so much as a blush. The second you say something phoney, especially when pushing your own agenda, noxious fumes spew forth like an ash cloud from an angry volcano.

When people let me peek into their inner world, I see two different kinds of landscapes. Sometimes a wasteland, a scorched and suffocated semi-desert strewn with rusty cans and shards of unwashed windows, with dirt roads pushing lazily through yellowing grass and skeletons of starved cliches. And other times a moist and breathing jungle, voraciously laced with boozing colors and crisscrossed with mossy branches, a maze teeming with exotic life-forms and fruits and the Lizards of Oz sticking their forked tongues out to slowly dripping juices.

And I am always amazed how strongly correlated the vibrancy of one's inner world is with one's ability to bullshit. A textbook example of inverse proportion. Almost as if gardening of the Soul had but one simple rule: A spade is a spade and a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.



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