Aristotle: Shut up, motherf*cker, how can you understand my perfect city when I haven’t explained it yet?
Socrates: No, dickhead, not that, I understand what you were saying before, about perfection. It’s all about forms.
Aristotle: Forms?
Socrates: Yeah, motherf*cker, forms. Like, something don’t have to physically exist for it to be perfect; it exists as the perfect ideal, the perfect form, beyond mortal comprehension.
Alcibiades: Socrates, you’re supposed to pour your libations on the ground, not drink them till you’re talking like a crazy Bacchae bitch.
Socrates: Normally, I’d be pouring libations with your spinal fluid right now, but since I’m feeling at peace with the universe I’ll try to enlighten your sorry ass instead. Imagine there’s this dark, underground cave.
Alcibiades: Yeah?
Socrates: And there’s this rapist-motherf*cker, and he’s got this gimp, right, tied up in the cave. See that?
Aristotle: Okay.
Socrates: And this rapist, he’s a sick motherf*cker, so let’s say one day he sends down a coupla pipe-hittin’ negroes to cut the gimp’s ear right off.
Alcibiades: Cut his ear off?
Socrates: Yeah, and gouge out his f*cking eyes. Now wouldn’t you say that the ear and eye are the proper receptacles of the senses of sight and hearing, respecitively?
Alcibiades: Clearly so.
Socrates: So, moreover, would you not agree that this gimp’s senses are imperfect?
Aristotle: Why, yes, Socrates, I suppose they would be a trifle damaged.
Socrates: And what do things look like to someone with imperfect senses?
Alcibiades: Dark?
Socrates: No, motherf*cker, nine letters, begins with “I.”
Aristotle: Imperfect.
Socrates: Bingo. So you’d say this gimp, you’d say this gimp motherf*cker would be unable to perceive true perfection—but that don’t mean it don’t exist. Now if you brought him out of the cave, into the light, things would be less dark, and his eyes might heal a little, he might begin to see a glimmer of light, thereby gaining the idea of true perfection—
Aristotle: What kind of argument is that? Your theory of the forms rests on an arbitrary and vicious act of violence.
Socrates: [Draws his gun.] Aristotle, you’re Plato’s student, I respect you, but I will put f*cking bullets through your heart if you don’t take back what you said about me being violent now!
Aristotle: [Also drawing gun] You shoot, you’ll be dining with Lord Hades tonight. I repeat. You kill me, your ass is eating pomegranate f*cking casserole for the rest of eternity.
For more Tarrantino-eques fun:
Pulp Fiction in 30 Seconds.
3 comments:
The whole thing is hysterical. :-P
Oh My Gawd! that's just too damned funny
Snicker, snicker. That Tarantino, he just gets it. Pomegranate casserole, indeed.
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