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Brain Farts was a weekly humor column that ran in the Louisville Eccentric Observer from mid-2000 until the summer of 2002. It was, well, eccentric. And occasionally satirical. And sardonic. Some liked it, some hated it; some just didn't get it, and that's OK. There were times when I didn't get it either. I've compiled here some of the archives from Brain Farts for the enjoyment of friends, family and anyone else who happens by. I also have written some new Brain Farts, and added some links and other trivialities that you shouldn't be too concerned with.

Unless you're as bored as I am.

Brain Farts: The Obvious Answer
	By Kevin Gibson November 22, 2000

I asked the gnome on the corner of Bardstown Road and Grinstead Drive the meaning of life. He smiled and said, "I wondered when you would come looking for me. Sit down."

So I sat.

"My friend, let me tell you, being a gnome isn't easy. People call you names. Things like, 'shorty.' And 'gnome.' It can bring you down. And ever since the Smurfs -- well, we just haven't commanded the respect we used to."

I listened intently, eagerly awaiting his wisdom. He cleared his throat and belched. "Women don't talk to me. I go into a bar, and the bartender can't even freakin' see me. Then when I climb up onto the barstool, he asks me for ID. Gnomes don't have ID. We all know each other, for crying out loud."

Two skinheads walked by. I could sense they wanted to beat us up. I knew I dared not mention that I write for LEO. Apparently reading my mind, they laughed after they passed us. Or maybe one of them simply said something funny. Like "piddlefart."

"It's a never-ending process," the gnome continued. "Tall people pick on us, semi-tall people pick on us, medium-sized people pick on us, average- to medium-sized people occasionally pick on us, which merely makes us wary and uncomfortable in social settings with people of that general size."

I nodded, wishing he would soon come to a point.

"But it has made gnomes strong. It has made us wise. And that is why it is only we who know the meaning of life."

The gnome then looked me in the eye and poked me firmly in the chest. "Are you worthy of this knowledge?" I only shrugged. Then he said, "I'll tell you what: I'll share this with you, but you have to promise to do something for me when we're finished here, and you can't ask what."

This intrigued and frightened me. What would a gnome ask for? A first-born? Part of my soul? Toast? Shaking slightly, I nodded. He smiled.

"OK, then. The meaning of life is ..." He paused, apparently for dramatic effect. "The meaning of life is ... beer."

I accepted this. It was the only possible meaning. I asked him what, in turn, he required from me.

"Could you go over there to Speedway and get me a six-pack?"

I did, after which he skipped merrily away toward Cherokee Park. I could only assume he had more wisdom to impart. He popped open a can of Lite and belched as he made his way out of earshot.

I turned to my roommate, who had been standing there the entire time. He shook his head and said, "You're the only person I know who buys beer for homeless midgets."

E-mail the writer at kgramone@aol.com. But only if you have wisdom to impart.