"I don't get upset if people think I'm crazy. If you go to a mental hospital and someone calls you a name, would you get upset? Of course not. Well, that's the way I think about the world. They don't know any better."

― Jacque Fresco

If you're a mouse in a cage, you don't see yourself as such, because you don't see the cage.

Instead, you view yourself as the center of everything, and everything as the cage.

In reality, everything exists outside the cage, and you're another piece in an astronomical jigsaw puzzle ― the size and scope of which elude you. It's a rare mouse who looks around, and realizes this.

Guess what?

Now that you've read the previous four sentences, you are that mouse.

"Pick me up behind the drug rehab center."

"Is that off Trop'?"

"I don't know. I never learned to drive; I don't have a license, so I don't know the streets."

"Oh."

"It's next to Planned Parenthood―"

"Sanger's shit shack?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Go ahead."

"It's across from SA, where I take my son for treatments―"

" 'SA'?"

"Sexaholics Anonymous. There's a food stamps building―"

"Wait. Your son is in Sexaholics Anonymous?!"

"Uh huh. You're okay with him taking pics of us fucking, right?"

" 'Him'?...Who's 'him'?!"

"Duh. My son! It's alright; he's 28 years old―"

A click, and ― in the lyrics of Simon & Garfunkel ― the sound of silence.

"Hello?...Hello?!"

You know all that time people spend texting about their Pomeranian's asshole smelling of lima beans? Well, I use those intervals to write.

Every three minutes and 47 seconds you waste, waiting for your car to warm up, is a chance to commit serious revelations to paper. That eight minutes you employ, pushin' out spent Del Taco burritos, is opportunity to inform the public of the scrapbooking housewives you fucked, in front of their porn-bleeding husbands. You string enough lunch breaks together, scribblin' about handjobs you received from women missing fingers, and you've written a fuckin' novel!

Thus, the following, which I — Mike Oxhard — experienced firsthand, while bangin' away on the Vegas Strip:

Dick Cheney's soul would've been easier to find than a dry place to sit.

When she came, a flood that made the Epic of Gilgamesh look like baby drool, burst from her vagina. A strident scream emitted from her cock-filled throat, as she squeezed a pair of penises on either side of her face.

In response, the next-door neighbor pounded frenetically against a wall as thin as Gandhi on a hunger strike.

Outside the window, the neon face punch of the Flamingo Hotel sign delivered perpetual knock-out blows to the dark, desert night.

More buffed than a $10,000 car waxing, hubby gripped his groin at the sloppy, soaked fringes of the mattress.

Mike Oxhard, and a group of grinders, transformed a mental blueprint for the perfect porn into reality, as another crazed couple lived out their fantasies in Vegas. Nine-to-five was forgotten nomenclature, as the shackles binding society released, and the slaves almost lived for a few hastened breaths.

And then it came. The door nearly imploded, as somebody on the other side mistook it for a punching bag, during a fit of rage. Streaming squirt decimated a TV monitor, as all activity ceased, and every eye in the joint focused on the source of the sound.

Glancing at one another, the nude bodies shared a hive mind:

"Incensed neighbors?

Hotel security?!

Metro PD?!?"

"A― answer it,...honey," chivalry-bankrupt hubby sent his wife forth ― a naked sacrifice.

Skydiving without a parachute ― atop the ultimate adrenaline high, due to excessive orgasms ― the perfectly-tanned goddess hopped off the bed, and raced to the door. From between her thick thighs, kitty cream left a snail trail on the desecrated carpet.

The only true pussies present, the men began dressing, conjuring up excuses as to why they were alone in a room with a nude, screaming woman.

"Where's the fuckin' party?!?" a European voice bellowed, as a Czech couple came around the corner, a fifth of Cuervo in hand.

"Honey," the naked housewife squealed, "this is Drago and Mariana! They're our neighbors from next-door."

"Hey, guys!" Drago chimed in. "We heard you havin' fun over here, and wanted to see what was goin' on."

Moments later, the Czech patriarch was doin' Colombian candy off stay-at-home-mom tits, while Oxhard forced a geyser to release from yet another birth canal.

What if that energy expended worrying about which penguin penis Michelle Obama is sucking, was used on something of worth?

Don't you feel the pursuit of an ion engine, allowing our species to explore this Universe, eclipses who won the fuckin' Super Bowl?

Recall all that time you spent engaging in trivialities ― watching TV, playing video games, and "working." How 'bout if we'd invested those precious moments shifting the fossil fuel burning infrastructure to safe, hydrogen-based transportation?

Rather than selling the necessities of survival ― food, shelter, and water ― to fellow humans, and allowing them to die, if they can't pay, shouldn't we be focusing that power on developing teleportation?

Given we're seven billion strong, don't you think we could've accomplished proficiency in these areas, by now?

Of course. We've mastered the art of destroying ourselves. We could, just as adeptly, perfect the skill of saving our kind.

"You wasted all that time we gave you, aboard Earth, collecting useless strips of fabric you call 'cash'?! It didn't occur to you your tenure could've been better utilized figuring out who you were, where you resided, and what everything means?!"

I'm not gonna force you to do anything. I could, but what's the point? School pressures you to swallow its lies; churches demand you deep throat its decrees; government breaks your back, as it ****s you up the asshole with its calumnies. I refuse to emulate these forms of "authority."

Instead, I will inform you ― and I've discovered this ubiquitously, during my sexual sojourns ― unless you pursue your passions, regret will shred your every thought.

"Great minds think for themselves."