Whistle Pig was not a philosopher. Although he rarely got offended (what’s the point, really, when you know you’re superior anyway?), he might have been offended had someone titled him such.
Philosophy and folderol of the like was a big waste of time. Whistle Pig frowned upon the fools who sat around discussing life’s meaning and a purposeful future while life whizzed by out the window. Who cares what the hell life is all about if you’re going to spend more time analyzing the concept than actually living for God’s sake?
If this seems like philosophy in itself, then shame on you darlings for reading into it.
But while Whistle Pig did not dwell on purpose, that is not to say that he was without one. His purpose was pleasure—go on and frown and have your little tirade on self-absorbedness and question, outraged, “what if we all thought that way?” But stop bullshitting yourself and ask if maybe you’d like the freedom to think that way as well. Oh please, without society’s pressure to uphold morality you’d all be rolling around with Candy from the corner—pleasure, cheap and available.
Calm down, my favorite rye drinkers, and if you must analyze Piggy’s ways, analyze this: selfishness demands a little investment in humanity’s general well being. Take those crazy environmentalists. In their prediction of man’s downfall they all condemn anthropocentricism, that school of thought that elevates the human above all else, places the needs of mankind at the forefront. But if man’s best interest is his own well being—is there really any better motivation to save the goddamn earth?
I’ve gotten off track. Live how you want or how you feel you must. Speculate and ponder if that’s what you’re about. But when you join Whistle Pig for whiskey and good conversation, please don’t make that conversation philosophical. Nothing ruins a good drink like someone trying to figure out the meaning of life.
Wake-up people! The meaning of life is in a glass in your hand.
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