A couple eastern settlers sat conversing.
"We have settled the Chams, the Aboriginies, and the Cherokee!"
And everyone nodded in agreement!
"We messed up. Pretty good," in reply.
And each man turned to their left to see who had spoken, only to see the backs of their own heads.

Alarmed by neck hairs, they began to chase one another, a race in a circle increasing in speed.
You see, they were beating themselves continuously, first with bayonets then with world trade!
Unfortunately, none of them made it home. All that running had starved them of water, and they got so thirsty they drank up all the alcohol.

You can't find the door if you're drunk, Socrates didn't write. Instead, he sat in helpless mild pleasure at the center; his head parroting around like an owl's.

I would laugh, Socrates didn't write, if only things ever ended.