Robert Robus waxes philosophical on the seeming futility of striving

. . .[T]here is no enduring remembrance of the wise or of fools, seeing that in the days to come all will have been long forgotten. How can the wise die just like fools? So I hated life, because what is done under the sun was grievous to me; for all is vanity and a chasing after wind.
-Ecclesiastes 2:16

Allow me to preface this post, dear readers, with a comment to the effect of the following: That while I, Robert Robus, at first judiciously contemplated that it may well constitute an abhorrent abomination to Jove to quote a passage from such a book as the Bible (the text of which, when perused, can only bring about further impiety and a turning away from the Greek gods Divine), I figured that, by seeking out and citing one of the most dejected, skeptical passages in the entire Book, I might in fact gain (not lose) in the favor of almighty Jove.

And yet, despite the fact that said passage from Ecclesiastes is decidedly un-Roman in tenor, I must confess that I, Robert Robus, seem to concur with its sentiments: For I, Robert Robus, am the wisest man on earth. Indeed, if my wisdom were distributed evenly amongst the remainder of the human species, I do hereby declare that no fool would remain to rove the earth.

And yet where, may I ask, does all the copious wisdom which I most assuredly possess get yours truly? Nowhere, that's where! For I, Robert Robus, still have no dame, but only a plethorially attractive female attendant, Ayvana; and similarly I, Robert Robus, possess but one 'friend,' and he is intolerably cruel to me; ahnd, not to put too fine a point on it but furthermore, I, Robert Robus, have come to the distinct realization that my philosophical waxings tend rather toward the pompous, orotund, and bombastic end of the spectrum of stuffed-shirtedness than otherwise; and that I possess precious few millions of enthusiastic readers worldwide.

And yet, while no more than a third of the hominids presently inhabiting the globe hang on my every word, I must admit that I, Robert Robus, am content to continue copiously with my pontification. For, though my rarefied and profundant musings may be futile and a pursuit of wind, this--for better or for worse--appears to be my portion.


[NOTE FROM BLOG ADMINISTRATOR]
May Mr. Robus's impiety to Jove be soon forgotten
--Like everything else under the sun!
(I shall now be taking a bottle of NyQuil and slumbering for five jornadas on end. Nobody worry about me!)

Robert Robus's top ten signs you've been eating too many doughnuts

1. Can no longer tell where chin ends and neck begins.
2. Your pants--which have an elastic waistband (and were bought in the largest size)--have nevertheless snapped.
3. You've bought stock in Dunkin' Donuts.
4. What shoes?
5. The doughnuts you've consumed over the past fortnight, if piled one on top of another, would stretch from Earth to Uranus and back. . .25 times.
6. During a trip to the local marina last week, you were asked to leave after patrons complained that you'd sunk your teeth into a large, brown life preserver.
7. You now outweigh all players who have ever played for the Miami Dolphins--combined.
8. You tried to enter a sumo-wrestling contest last week, only to discover you'd exceeded the limit for the highest weight class by 350 pounds.
9. What? Those haven't been oversized, discolored Cheerios? That explains a lot.
10. Tartar's mad at you.