Philosophers On Strike.

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Dissent in the Ranks!

Up to this point, union captain David Hume has only stated that the philosophers are on strike and what he thinks the rest of us should do about it, but he has not demonstrated a clear quid-pro-quo relationship between the two.

Zeno of Elea claims a total resolution is impossible because in order to reach an agreement, both sides must first agree on half of the demands, then half of the remaining demands, then half of the remainder after that, then ...

Emmanuel Kant was heard to say that he doubted the morality of the strike, Rene Descartes tried to convince him that everything may not be as immoral it appears, while Socrates questioned both on their definitions of morality.

We are currently investigating rumors that Sartre had crossed the picket line, claiming Radical Freedom. Kierkegaard allegedly followed him, saying that the strike was hopeless anyway.

Wittgenstein said only that the strike a was stupid and that he was going home.

Plato's in his cave, stimming with Play-Doh.

Diogenes is no longer walking around with his lantern, jerking off in broad daylight to prove a point, or hurling plucked chickens at the Platonists. He's got a membership with Wrong Planet now.

Wollstonecraft trips Kierkegaard with the toe of her boot, demanding equal picket time.
Brontë crushes a butterfly, shoots her pistol, and denounces Darwin's idealism whilst de Beauvoir winks at Sartre.

All hell breaks loose when he smiles back.

Nietzsche has more time to visit sex workers.
And is working on discovering penicillin.

I find it disturbing that social science fields have regained moral aspects.

Back when I was in grad school in 2011-2012, they were already saying it was the responsibility of sociologists to guide culture and correct history. The philosophy side of sociology, until then very important, was discarded. What is it really? What is the point? What are the counter arguments? They didn’t want to explore those kind of questions anymore.

Descartes tells Occam to stop whinging, because his body doesn't exist.

Hamlet, deciding "to be" with Ophelia is a nice future prospect, has removed every tree within fifty yards of the riverbank.

Jean-Paul Sartre has made the other decision, or is loudly claiming to; currently Tolstoi and Kant are trying to wrest Chekhov's gun away from him. Unfortunately, it was accidentally discharged through some peculiarly vile late-Victorian yellow wallpaper. Oscar "either that wallpaper goes or I do" Wilde, feeling much better, gets up from his deathbed and plans to write a three-act farce comedy. He looks at the American newspapers for inspiration.

And Sylvia Plath has accidentally bicycled into Chesterton's fence.

Euclid analyses the interior angles of Plath's bicycle spokes as they transect Chesterton's fence. He scribbles furiously on papyrus, as Hegel tries to read his own work. An anthithetical swarm of murder hornets kills Hegel for his own good, then proceeds to chase Plath, who is concussed from her fall and complains of hunger. Deftly, she captures the hornets in a small glass jar adorned with her bicycle bell, before stumbling home to eat.