Balloons as a base

I am a man and thus equipped as well as any other to tell of men and what I’ve gleaned of their essential nature.

Many would discourage this strange consultation, but here we are. You’ve left me little choice but to speak:

Bigfoot, we mean well. We struggle with temptation. We fail endlessly to curtail ourselves. We are like flowers that keep blossoming into new and more incredible forms. We are nearly always in some generative state. It is as if we were each the half of something reaching out.

This brings rivalries, deceit, cruelties in the guise of charitable concern, monstrous ideas that rain down destruction.

Dollars and cents may have become our universal language, but I believe in the free exchange of inspiration:

What man loves is a good joke, a clever bit of play that looks sinister but is nothing after all, a punch alley that unravels the growing fear: everything is as wicked as it seems. The sense of comedic order is intact, Darwin was wrong:

• Everything is arranged in the funniest possible way.
• Somehow laughter cures everything.
• There is no better compliment than to be called a good liar.