Now, I’m not a philosopher, but I AM drunk at this moment, so I’ll attempt to discuss philosophy within my own limited eckshp- expewir- …Stuff.
“Na, na, na, na, na, na. Y’ can’t do that,” said his drunken mate. “There’s a rule, right? Anything you attempt drunk, right? Anything… you try t’ do drunk… ‘S gonna end in d’saster.”
“She’ll be right, mate,” said Kevin. “Ph’los’phy’s jus’ words, innit? Can’t hurt anybody wif just words. It’s like… noise… duzn’ hurt.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, Kev. I’m tellin’ ya. I’m tellin’… I’m tellin’… What w’s I tellin’ ya?”
“Neveryoumindit, Bazza. We’re golden. See, thing ‘bout ph’los’phy is…”
*
It was later. They both had splitting headaches. And, apparently, an attending crowd of rapt followers.
“The hell’s going on?” said Bazza.
“Who or what must we eliminate next, Master?” said a follower. They had a weird and unblinking stare.
Kevin peeked up from the pillows. Took one look at the assembled cult and muttered, “Oh fuck me. You were right.”
There were fifty volunteers.
[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]