This cereberally-challenged essay is excerpted from the novel, The Brilliantly Rainbowed, Semi-Transparent, Red or AquaTinted Adventure (© 1993, Michael C. Rudasill). While the characters and setting are fictive, Egghead's obtuse exposition deals with concepts that may be equally misapplied to the realms of imagination or reality. To view the source of this idealogical mayhem, sneak a peek at The Brilliantly Rainbowed Adventure.

        At this moment, the clear, tinkling ding-a-ling of the cook's iron triangle told us that dinner was ready. The trail cook on this roundup was Stumpy Wedgewater, an hombre who was tooted about as an accomplished master-chef. You might could say that he lived up to all of the publicity.
        We ate a hefty pile of bar-be-qued beans, ribs, corn on the cob, and goober fricasee, not to mention gizzards and gravy with fritters and jitters baked in the coals and a passle of his fabulous cat-head biscuits. It was a sumptillious feast, if ever one was.
        It turned out that Stumpy had contributed to the music we had heard when we first arrived in camp. Slug opined that Stumpy's cooking was better that his singing, but Stink disagreed.
        They began to argue about it and proceeded to make a big mistake. Displaying their shrivelled minds for all to see, they asked for my opinion on the subject.
        "Well," I said, thumbing my suspenders, "Stumpy's so good at singin' and cookin', it's tough to figure out which he does best. I reckon that you could go either way on it, depending upon your priorities. The question is, what's more important, music or food?" These wise observations sparked a lively debate among the drovers and our own group of famous hick musicians.
        Sneb averred that the enjoyment of music was impossible without the nourishment of the flesh, while Stumpy stoutly affirmed that music was sufficient food for the soul without the necessity of culinary embellishment, finally asserting that food was nothing more than parsley garnishing the plate of life. Stinky, proving himself to be smarter than his intelligence indicated, allowed that anyone who liked music more than food was not very hungry.
        To end the debate, Stinky challenged them to a test. All parties would endure ten days without food. At the end of this period, they would be offered a choice between ten more foodless days - featuring world-class musical presentations - or all of the chow they could eat. Those still choosing music would be shot.
        Stinky's idea was popular, but I convinced them not to act on it.
        "Boys," I said, "now don't go a'shootin' each other, even if it's just for fun." To distract them, I hammed up the hick accent, using the mouth that was conveniently located in the middle of my face. "I've got an idea," I smorfed smilingly, "let's see if ol' Egghead can shed some light on thisy-here debate." When I said this, all eyes rolled over to Egghead and sat like little boiled eggs at his feet, anxiously waiting to hear what he had to say.
        "Gentlemen," Egghead began soberly, "the debate between you Musicists and Foodists is as old as rock and roll. And so, I might add, is the give and take of argument and persuasion: the point and counterpoint of human debate itself. Your free-wheeling argy bargy is a classic example. By competitive assertions, you seek to be adjudged as bearers of truth, in this manners capturing the prize of credibility in the sight of your peers."
        At this conjuncted joint, Billy's loud snoring rudely interrupted the speech. He had fallen sound asleep, numbed by the dull monotone of Eggy's boring lecture. Zeb politely kicked him, and he fell face first into his beans.
        None of this troubled the imperturbable Sir Eggy. Staring at the eyes gathered around his feet, he continued to air out his musty ideas like a pit bull shaking a dusty old bone.
        "I was indeed, at one time, actively engaged in the pursuit of relative verity through the elucidation and attempted affirmation of conceptual models that were devised to express - in relative terms at least - a piece of universal truth. The acquisition and assertion of relative truths (or of artfully constructed assertions) was a necessity if I were to rise to prominence in the scholarly community.
        "But if I hoped to maintain my integrity, how could I set forth an argument built upon principles that I was not certain of? And how could I be certain, given the limited scope of my knowledge?
        "The search for the affirmation or negation of my conceptual propositions led to a realization that, compared to the complexity of the universe, I was less than an intellectual ant. As a perishable life form with limited time in which to acquire and analyze knowledge, I lacked the depth of wisdom that was required to understand even a miniscule fragment of the universe.
        "I am not equipped to authoritatively address weighty matters. Neither am I equipped to pass judgement upon quality-of-life issues raised by the current debate.
        "I am suggesting that mortal creatures are necessarily limited in their abilities and their knowledge. Limits upon life span in our universe inherently hinder the capabilities of the perishable creatures operating within its parameters. But there are other factors to be considered as well.
        "When we state that temporality exists, we imply the possibility of eternal life. The concept of mortality leads naturally to the idea of immortality.
        "Does immortality exist? If so, how can I, the perishable and limited, glimpse even a portion of the uncorrupted and illimitable? How can I even imagine such things, except by an insight that is inexplicable?

        "To assure my scholarly standing, I would like to make authoritative assertions about the world around me. But I cannot do this honestly in the absence of the facts, and it is obvious that I do not have all of the facts. If I had all of the facts, I would know all things. If I knew all things, I would quickly make myself immortal and rule the universe at my own pleasure. Obviously, this is not an option… because I do not know all things.
        "Can it be that I am just a small, limited player in a greater game? Can it be that I am a created entity, stumbling in the dark, so to speak, unless I am endowed with a knowledge that I cannot earn or grasp by my own power? And without absolute knowledge, how can I honestly be certain of the verity of my position in any debate? For the unknown data, once known, may annul or discredit my conclusions to a greater extent than the discoveries of modern science debunked the Flat Earth Theory."
        None of knew what to say. We had barely understood a word that he said, but it seemed as though he must have made a good point. Whatever it was, he made it, and we heard it, even if we didn't get it. That much was true, anyway!
        "Somebody send out a posse to round up a Martian!" blurted Slug.
        "A Martian?" drawled Sneb skeptically, "Why?"
        "To translate what Egghead just said!"
        Well, sirree, I never seen the like of it. The whole woods exploded in laughter. Cowboys, cooks, musicians, horses, cattle, owls, armadillos, weasels, scrub jays, gopher tortoises, panthers, you name it. We all laughed until we cried. The laughter broke down all of the normal self-policing barriers of the wilderness: predators and herbivores yokked it up side by side, slapping each other on the back with hoof, horn, and claw.
        As we finished and were drying our eyes, I heard a voice shout suddenly, "Hey, boys, lookee there!"
        I looked up just in time to see Egghead go off like a Roman candle.
        The top of his head popped open, and fireworks cascaded out. Rockets zoomed in every direction: chasing the cowboys, nailing the owls to the trees, scorching past the pileated woodpeckers to explode in the dark sky over the clearing, spelling out the words, "DON'T MAKE FUN OF EGGHEAD!"
        It was suddenly as quiet as death. The rockets fizzled out, and Egghead shook his head groggily, looking around to see what had happened. I cleared my throat smack dab in the middle of the silence.
        "Well, boys," I offered weakly, "it just may be that old Egghead's got a point."