Millions of books written on every
conceivable subject by all these
great minds, and, and in the end,
none of 'em knows anything more
about the big questions of life
than I do. Ss--I read Socrates.
You know, n-n-n--, this guy used to
kn-knock off little Greek boys.
What the hell's he got to teach me?
And, and Nietzsche with his, with
his Theory of Eternal Recurrence.
He said that the life we live,
we're gonna live over and over
again the exact same way for
eternity. Great. That means I,
uh, I'll have to sit through the
Ice Capades again. Tch. It's not
The movie next cuts to a sunny day in Central Park. A male
jogger, seen through some tree branches, runs by. The
camera moves past him, revealing a pondering Mickey walking
by the reservoir. He continues to talk over the screen.
And, and Freud, another great
pessimist. Jeez, I was in analysis
for years. Nothing happened. My
poor analyst got so frustrated.
The guy finally put in a salad bar.
Several joggers pass Mickey; he continues to ruminate.
Oh! Look at all these people
jogging...trying to stave off the
inevitable decay of the body. Boy
(smacking his lips)
it's so sad what people go through
with their-their stationary bike
and their exercise and their...
(glancing at a fat
woman jogger in a red
sweatsuit who runs by)
...Oh! Look at this one! Poor
thing. My God, she has to tote all
that fat around. Maybe the poets
are right. Maybe love is the only