So some helium walks into a bar...

Or, rather than walks, floats; for helium, at room temperature, is a gas, and thus has no legs with which to walk, and, due to its lighter-than-air nature, does not sink to the ground. The bartender himself is confused, for not only is helium invisible to the naked eye in the absence of another object to contain it, should quickly dissipate. Furthermore, a cloud of helium, lacking any sort of motor system, is at the mercy of atmospheric currents and cannot enter a bar under its own power. It should not have been capable of opening the door to the bar. Even if it could, hypothetically, propel itself in such a manner, the lack of any semblance of a nervous system would make meaningful coordination difficult, if not possible. And, if the cloud of helium has no nervous system, how can it think to enter a bar? How can it be self-conscious enough to know that it desires a drink? To question it is to question the nature of the self itself. What is the self? Is the self the physical body? But when the body is wounded, and, say, a limb is lost, the removed tissue is no longer considered part of the self. Is the self the consciousness? Yet nobody denies that an individual is no longer himself when he sleeps. Is the self a spiritual force, invisible and nebulous like the helium which provokes these questions? No scientific, empirical evidence of such exists; it is the domain of scholars, priests, and mortals who chase the shadows of the unknown. Who could say? It is a question that mankind has struggled to solve since the dawn of time without success.

The bartender is facing an existential crisis when he recalls the bar's policy towards noble gases and his psyche is once again put at ease. "You're going to have to leave, we don't serve your kind here," he says, grunting at the mass of atoms.

The helium doesn't react.
(note:I didn't write this, I just thought it was funny).

Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)

Vincent (Starry, Starry Night) by Don McLean

Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer's day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills,
Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land.

Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.

Starry, starry night.
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,
Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.

Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.

For they could not love you,
But still your love was true.
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night,
You took your life, as lovers often do.
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you.

Starry, starry night.
Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met,
The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.

Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...

Get the MP3 here