Dragging butt so late in the morning, I've made me an absolutely exquisite iced coffee, as delicious as it is galvinising, and nothing fearing,

I have summoned, via Google, from the World Wide Web of Infinite knowledge, Emmanuel Kant's Groundwork for a Metaphysic of Morals, and I'm reading the damned thing with delight and perfect concurrence:  I like it as well, so far (nine paragraphs in), as if I had written it myself; almost as much as a treatise by, say Diderot or Condorcet, so unexceptionably is it polite, lucid and reasonable.  Yes, yes, yes it is just thus that we must distinguish between an empirical/scientific philosophy and a moral philosophy, if we are to avoid making a hash of both, and understanding neither....

So when is the ax going to fall?  At what point, devouring one by one the translucent petals of the "thin knife" fugu sashimi laid out like a chrysanthemum in front of me, will it dawn on me that I've stopped breathing?

Well, it fell, like a shower of plum blossom petals--cogné come un prunier--right at the beginning of the first section, where suddenly the discourse is enriched with  matter pulled straight out of the philosopher's ass: And "the good," which had been problematical enough in its own right, becomes the utter fecal mess of a "good will."  About which, meseemeth (for I have read a few paragraphs ahead, just to make sure), Kant knew less, and had more mistaken notions of, even than Jean Jacques Rousseau or Mary Baker Eddy.  There is no point in continuing.

Except that I know that there are (out there in the world) hysterical, shrill, vastly ignorant and infinitely presumptuous, neo-Marxist, social constructionist, feminist, queer theorists, who are dogging my mildly misogynist, rationalist, gay Zen humanist tracks through the Stygian Postmodern Darkness that has fallen at the End of Times--waiting till I falter or slacken my pace so that they can besmirch me with their feces, and, while they scream, like shrikes and kestrels, that I am violating them by ignoring them, raping them by dismissing them--and beg me only just to listen to them, and not to squirm, while they decapitate and dismember me with their fingernails, and fingernail clippers, and sharp little teeth.

Against that time, when the Daughters of Madness will crawl out of the woods at me, intending to defile me and destroy me, I will learn a few of their shibboleths:  "Patriarchy, Objectify, Male Gaze, Slut Shame, Phallocentric"--maybe even the "V." word (Alhough, as a Catholic lady of my acquaintance, recently deceased, used always to say about the "S." word, "If you say it, you get some on you").  Anyway, when that time comes, it will be helpful, I think (even if it's only just funny), to explain to the shrieking Maenads what Emmanuel Kant meant by "objectify," and why he thought that objectification, homosexuality, masturbation, and even sex itself, were all "wrong."