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Page 75 text:
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Page 74 text:
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And Why Not A Chickenif And so it has come to pass that in the tradition of such thinkers as Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and Heidegger, and such literary geniuses as Camus, Satre, and Kafka, that we've come to notice the existential chicken as a true philosopher of our times. As chronicled by that vener- able historian, Webster Wright, we know that after find- ing an answer to that ever-evading question, Who am I? did the existential chicken very rudely lose his head to friendly farmer Jones and was eaten soon thereafter. And as it has happened to this victim of the food chain that we ask and why not a chicken? I find it appropriate, then, to mention this in relation to we, the graduates of Canarsie High School of 1983, who will soon be on our way to leading our own lives. When we were tiny little chicks we couldn't care less about what was happening, or what would happen from decisions we made. Now that we've almost become full- grown chickens we realize that we shouldn't count our proverbial eggs before they hatch, and to get up early so we can catch those ridiculously stupid worms. We will go out in the world and try earnestly not to get out tiny heads chopped off and then frozen in some supermarket whereaold women squeeze us to see if we're fresh. But seriously now . . . We all face common dilemmas in our lives as well as some serious problems that will determine the future outcomes of our decisions. It is important to remember all of the things we learned beforehand in order to make the right decisions. But there are some things that we've learned here at Canarsie High that will probably not cause us any problem in our future: When will we desperately have to find a covalent bond? When will we ever have to make to make those silly trigonometric graphs? Who will ever read Moby Dick just for fun? When will we ever have to conjugate a verb in all tenses as we walk down the street? See? But there is a higher purpose to these years we spent at Canarsie High. It is the total Canarsian experience that we've all gone through that matters. So, when en- countering any sort of problem, any sort of unanswerable question that must be faced, we can stand firmly with a gleam in our eye and say, and why not a chicken? Why not? N.P. 'fln memory of Kilgore Trout. To Kill A iMocking Smurf I met him one summer day, A blue-skinned dwarf who led me away Into at land of synthoid, plastic-folk Of tiny, xeroxed, selfless, Smurfs. I followed him in silence On a path through which he led, And then without a second thought, I crushed his tiny head. And from the blue, pulpy mass That used to be his brain, There sprung to life millions more of him And they all looked the same. You can't kill us, said the mocking Smurf. For, you see, we're everywhere on earth. Try as you might to stop our spread And you might find us crushing YOUR head. Shocked at this smiling threat Of Smurfdom's commercialized spread I followed the group of tiny blues Into a land where every Smurf rules. An angry, shouting, Nazi-smurf suddenly appeared Screaming about the spread of fear, And made no remark that was more wittier Than to say that he was a Smurf-Hitler. Oh, what a happy thing to be A thing as loved and cherished as me To be put on shirts and shoes and stickers Like the twisted cross of the beloved swastika! GG I then passed other Smurfs who smiled as we met Because of all the money that they would get From all of the people, young and old To whom the Smurfish propaganda was sold. So I left the land of the synthoid, plastic-folk With the hope of finding a love long lost For the family of friends I left in my house: Of Pluto and Donald and Mickey Mouse. T.T. Sawyer
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