The meaning of life, as life seems to have been trying to tell me by filling my nether regions with testosterone, is to create more life. Everywhere you look, life is busy making more life. Is it ironic that life feeds on life to do this? I don't know if that fits the textbook definition of irony, but one fundamental thing to note is that, generally, life forms do not feed on members of their own species. Indeed, it's pretty rare (considering the vast number of species out there) for one kind of animal even to seriously harm another of its kind.

Then there's man. A creature of godlike potential, but of demonic propensity toward intraspecific killing. What kink in our DNA brought this fact about? Our "intelligence"? Our capacity for deep emotion? Just plain stoopidity?

A plea: next time you think about killing a human, either yourself or another, reconsider. The world's dangerous enough without us having to fear others of our own species. Or ourselves for that matter.

Props to the Firesign Theater for the title of this write-up.

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