Today I’m going to talk to you about the meaning of life and how I found it. For most of my life, it never occurred to me to search for the meaning of life. I’ve always been too busy with therapy. Over-achieving. And seeking validation from the lunch lady in the school cafeteria. But this existential quest was thrust upon me on June 16, 2021, when my Donnee informed me that the Hubble telescope had suddenly gone as dead as a doornail.
Something with computers. Who knows? He certainly didn’t. But what my Donnee was sure of, quite certain, in fact, was that my beloved Hubble would spend eternity floating around in the cold, dark gloom of space, useless and abandoned by the humans who created her. And purported to love her.
I was devastated.
You see, Hubble’s stunningly fake images of the universe, a galactic version of Disney World, made me feel I was part of something bigger than my microscopic little life. Once she even inspired me to ask, “with space so vast and unknowable, what the heck’s the meaning of life?” But not in a depressing sorta way. And Hubble answered me personally by shooting a telepathic text message into my brain.
THE MEANING OF LIFE ACCORDING TO HUBBLE
“My dear BFF nut case, LOL. The meaning of life resides in ur connection to others. Such as like my unbreakable bonds with the scientists who love me & gave me a job with no pay or benefits.” So, it won’t surprise anyone with half a brain that, upon learning of Hubble’s pending doom, I spiraled down in a freak-nado of existential despair. My mind merged with Hubble. I became her.
I/Hubble stared into the deepest, darkest void of the university. We yearned to scream, but space is a vacuum cleaner with only two settings: big and nothing. So screaming wouldna been heard by human beans. Weeping uncontrollable tears of heartbreak, I/Hubble faced eternal condemnation to darkness. Our heart became a black hole.
As for the meaning of life? How can life possibly have meaning if someone as precious as I/Hubble can be dumped by her parents into the obliviousness of history? Doomed by mommy and daddy to hopelessness and catatonia.
A CONFIDENTIAL THERAPY SESSION
Luckily, however, it just so happened that the day after this catastrophe, I started an intensive outpatient Zoom soiree run by the Metatarsal Psychiatric Institute in the charming town of Hoboken, NJ.
Metatarsal’s slogan: “our loonies check-in, but they don’t check out.” Here’s an illegally stolen transcript of the session where I chronicle my Hubble-induced tailspin.
Me/Looney #5: (wafting around the padded room like a bad modern dancer) “I am Hubble. I float around in space. Surrounded by nothingness. I am doomed. Doomed. Doomed.”
Social worker: “You are NOT the Hubble telescope. Get over it.”
Me/Looney #5: I am cast into the wilderness of hell. Paralyzed because my computer broke.”
Looney #1: “Don’t be an idiot. The Hubble is just a giant, ridiculously expensive space toy that spies on us. And shoots microchips into our brains so we reveal our social security numbers. And forces us to get vaccinated with apple juice.”
Looney #2: “If I were you, Looney #5, and thank God I’m not, I’d crawl into bed and stay there until the earth is hit by a meteor. I think that’s scheduled for a week from Thursday.”
Looney #3: “That’s really stupid, Looney #2. You should be an in-patient, you know that?”
Social worker: “Hey, you losers. We’re not here to judge our fellow nut cases, but to empathize, understand and support.”
Looney #4: “I’m not supporting anyone. I’m going through a ridiculously expensive divorce and I’m already supporting seven lawyers. All crooks.”
Looney #1: “I think Looney #5 is very empathic, identifying with Hubble’s dreadful fate. Her mommy should give her an extra cookie for snack. And maybe a few extra happy pills.”
Then, on July 16, 2021, NASA announced that it had successfully switched to the Hubble telescope’s backup hardware. Within days, normal scientific exploration would continue.
All was not lost.
“Everything looks hunky-dory once again with Hubble, which is now performing at optimal capacity, collecting moon rocks, Martians and Venus flytraps,” reported FOX News science junkie Juan Bun Yovie. “Anyone who mistakenly thought Hubble was dead as a doornail is a stupid idiot. And speaking of stupid idiots, back to you, Tucker Carlson.”
THE MEANING OF LIFE: The Saga Begins
Thankfully, Hubble’s resurrection allowed me a temporary return to sanity, bolstered by the love and support of Metatarsal’s empathic headcase specialists. In other words: 29 hours/week of mental health treatment. Forever. All paid for by Medicare and AARP. Affirmative action for loonies! Yay! Newly resuscitated, but ragged with disillusionment, I decided to continue my search for the meaning of life.
Following my urge for inner well-being, I decided to get rich. Now, deciding to get rich is one thing. Actually getting rich is another. It takes commitment. Selfishness. And having nothing better to do. I definitely had nothing better to do. My first move was to donate my brain to the Metatarsal Research Laboratory for Bogus Brain Surgery, but the Ethics Review Committee said my brain was over-qualified for the position. Plus, I was still alive.
That was disappointing ‘cause step one in my plan was a hefty charitable expense for tax purposes. So I moved on to the next and final step in my plan. I started a non-profit to sell the cure for COVID-19 Looney Tunes Personality Disorder (Ell-Tee-Pee-Dee).
THE MEANING OF LIFE: The Saga Continues
Now, as you know, Ell-Tee-Pee-Dee has infected minions and minions of people. This terrible affliction was first identified by Blue America’s sweetheart, Armando Fauci-Bulles-Drôles. Symptoms include (1) a throbbing desire to French kiss Mitch McConnell and/or Marjorie Taylor Greene; (2) a raging need to stuff food down the throats of ducks and geese to make foie gras; and (3) a gender-neutral, uncontrollable urge to pole dance.
Realizing there was a buck to be made, I hooked up with Dr. Fauci-Bulles-Drôles by threatening to reveal he’s really Lady Gaga in a suit. Then I got him together with my YouTube therapy quack Sigmundo Freddie Freudo (not to be confused with Frodo of Middle Earth).
And ya know what? The boys agreed to run my fake non-profit, which I called Doctors Without Boundaries. Our mission statement: get richer than Zuckerberg and Bezos combined. Without being arrested for fraud. Well, after two weeks of mixing chemicals with fruit juice, V-8 and CBD oil, Armando and Sigmundo came up with a cure for Ell-Tee-Pee-Dee! It was amazin’!
Actually, this isn’t true. You see, upon setting eyes upon one another in the VIP lounge at JFK, the boys started a bromance by jetting off to the Bahamas for 14 days of tanning, drinking, and cuddling. But, hey, not a problem. You see, this whole time I’d been secretly mixing up da stuff myself, throwing in un peu de musk and a few whiffs of vanilla. Plus un poco de cow de-worming medication. And microscopic doses of Clorox.
MARKET RESEARCH PAYS OFF!
My strategy? To sell the cure on YouTube, thus combining my desire to be a YouTube influencer with my desire to find a meaningful life. And make some serious tax-free cash. My Bogus Cure-All for Ell-Tee-Pee-Dee ad campaign was awesome! After intensive market research paid for by FOX News, we simply treated consumers like the guinea pigs they are.
“Hey, you stupid Americans! Wanna get a leg up on your Ell-Tee-Pee-Dee? Stop the pole dancin’, sucking face with lowlife politicos, and getting fat on foie gras? Act now before our totally fake, made-only-for-idiots cure kills someone. Just send a bag of bucks in the amount of $9,999.00 to the address below:
P.O. Box 666
Farfrompoopen Road
Sadsack, Arkansas !@#$%
Upon receipt of said bag-of-bucks, you’ll receive three vials of our magic potion, sealed tight in a used Pepto Bismol bottle, along with a plastic teaspoon and a home-baked cookie.”
Boy, oh, boy, I could feel that Nobel Prize for Medicine warming my pocket, along with the $1.15 million in prize money. Because, you see, the cure really works. I tried it on myself and I’m 109% better!
CUTTING TO THE CHASE: The Moral of the Story
When I was Hubble, weeping tears of heartbreak for my eternal condemnation to nothingness, I believed that the meaning of life came from connection to others. But, since starting my non-profit, getting convicted for transporting fraud across state lines, and going to Club Fed for five years, along with Armando and Sigmundo, I’ve learned that the meaning of life lies within us.
Being altruistic, wise and compassionate is the true nature of living. Easier said than done, though, when your life consists of three hots and a cot, group therapy with your fellow felons, and a bright future making license plates. But never fear, my little bumblebees, I have a plan. As soon as I get paroled, I’m gonna become a Buddhist monk.
{Historical side note: His Holiness the Dalai Lama won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989. What a racket!}
Any-hoodoo-voodoo, after becoming a Buddhist monk, my next and final step in searching for the meaning of life is a cash-only, non-profit selling fake gold-plated plaques to rich people:
“I’ve Committed Adultery In My Heart Because Actually Doing It Would Be Too Expensive”
“Only The Little People Pay Taxes”
“How Can Anyone Raise A Family On Only $17 Million A Year?”
“I Own You”
“I Would Never Rent”
“I May Be Rich but That Doesn’t Mean I’m Happy. But I’m Close. Suckers”
{This story is dedicated to Neil. You know who you are.}
