Is Your Pet a Reincarnated Doctor?

1.  Most doctors don’t do anything. Most pets are equally unproductive.

2.  Most doctors can’t diagnose anything. Most pets know when you’re hurting and can smell diseases from across the room.

3.  Most doctoring relies on the placebo effect. And it’s not just the pills–the white coat, the diplomas, the waiting room, they’re all placebos too. But this is as it should be, given that the 30 to 50 percent baseline of success via the placebo effect exceeds the beneficial bump above the placebo effect that constitutes successful medicine. It would be malpractice not to harness the placebo effect in standard medicine. Its only fraud if you rely on it too much.

And since anything can be a placebo, why not your dog? One could argue that the healthiest attitude is one which views the entire universe as a placebo, but lets be realistic here and stick with reincarnated doctor-dogs.

4.  If there is a morality-based system of reincarnation, karmic logic would demand that useless, over-applauded egotists would come back as humble servants with unrecognized genuine healing power.

5.  Cats have nine lives so you can always steal a few. You paid for them. And dogs in their prime are indestructible compared to people, so by laying next to them you can sometimes get your malfunctioning system to “quorum sense” with a much more resilient one. The success rate equals the placebo effect +19%! That’s damn good medicine by any modern standard.

6. For truly incurable diseases, treatment is by definition palliative, and what’s more palliative than a pet?

7.  There has to be a place between Heaven and Hell for people who try to do good and heal people but who somehow end up as callous, BMW-driving ego-pricks.

And there is:  that place is your living room floor. So crawl your ass down there and get some placebo+19.

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Alternate Visions of Hell

Hell is an eternal cringe.

Hell is a cruel joke whose vicious punchline you don’t get at first because you are the punchline. No wait, that’s life.

Hell is embarrassing. More so than life.

Hell is both lonely and devoid of all privacy. Experience is entirely alienated and yet the suffering is all too personal. High school was nothing.

In Hell, all the negative emotions are infinitely intense and constant except for those equally painful moments when all emotions seem false and self-crushingly hollow.

The infinite remorse despair desperation loss blah-blah-blah is alleviated only by the brief festivities surrounding Satan Appreciation Week.

The climax of the festivities is the grand reinstatement of all that crushing pain and misery. Satan knows how to throw a party and he also knows how to end one.

And the black hole tour sucks. Sucks!

Satan’s under-bosses produce charts and reports to him showing their output and productivity–i.e., suffering levels. They are rewarded by being allowed to suffer a little less than everyone else. To earn this pathetic pittance their brutality knows no bounds.

And when you look on the bright side it just burns. Never look on the bright side. Never.

Half the people that show up for work on a given day in Hell might have forgotten to put their pants on. The other half laugh and point. But then a hideous beast suddenly materializes and slices them to pieces before they can barely stop laughing.

So are the pant-less people then in the clear? No, because they get attacked by the Soul Rapists.

Satanic moral of the story: better to get sliced to pieces by a hideous beast than soul-raped. So now you know.

And that’s just a Tuesday. By Thursday, the place is a total madhouse.