My brother is a philosopher. I know this because he’s told me, countless times. More than just a philosopher, even.
“Philoso-raptor,” he calls himself. “Swift of mind, rapaciously inquisitive.” On his twentieth birthday this year he alerted me to the fact that “at approximately two dumps a day, more than seven hundred a year, times twenty years, that puts me over the fourteen-thousand mark for squatting, most of it on the toilet. That, my man, is a lot of contemplation.”
That’s my brother.
He’s always telling me to be philosophical, to take things...