It Is Bad To Suppress Laughter. It

Mr. Bibbit, You Might Warn This Mr. Harding That I'm So Crazy I Admit To Voting For Eisenhower. Bibbit! You Tell Mr. Mcmurphy I'm So Crazy I Voted For Eisenhower Twice! And You Tell Mr. Harding Right Back — He Puts Both Hands On The Table And Leans Down, His Voice Getting Low — That I'm So Crazy I Plan To Vote For Eisenhower Again This November.

The Answer Is Never The Answer. What's Really Interesting Is The Mystery. If You Seek The Mystery Instead Of The Answer, You'll Always Be Seeking. I've Never Seen Anybody Really Find The Answer, But They Think They Have. So They Stop Thinking. But The Job Is To Seek Mystery, Evoke Mystery, Plant A Garden In Which Strange Plants Grow And Mysteries Bloom. The Need For Mystery Is Greater Than The Need For An Answer.

The Flock Gets Sight Of A Spot Of Blood On Some Chicken And They All Go To Peckin' At It, See, Till They Rip The Chicken To Shreds, Blood And Bones And Feathers. But Usually A Couple Of The Flock Gets Spotted In The Fracas, Then It's Their Turn. And A Few More Gets Spots And Gets Pecked To Death, And More And More. Oh, A Peckin' Party Can Wipe Out The Whole Flock In A Matter Of A Few Hours, Buddy, I Seen It. A Mighty Awesome Sight. The Only Way To Prevent It—with Chickens—is To Clip Blinders On Them. So's They Can't See.

It Is Bad To Suppress Laughter. It Goes Back Down To Your Hips. Man, When You Lose Your Laugh You Lose Your Footing.

I Believe That A Man Should Be... As Big As He Feels It In Him To Be!