Once upon a time, there was a scientist. And this scientist, he had a boss with a liberal arts degree. But we won't continue the story in this reality, since reality can be painful. Instead, we now enter the Proverbial Universe.
Once upon a time, there was a businessman. This businessman had a cushy job he got from his uncle, so he spent most of his days idling about. Every day, he had his chaffeur drive him to work. The chaffeur wasn't a perfect driver: the limo would stall sometimes, or the clutch would sieze and send all inside on a wild ride. But they always got where they wanted to go, at some point.
One day, the chaffeur arrived early in the morning to the garage. He put on his driver's gloves, his driver's goggles, and the leather cap that always made him look silly. He made sure his license was in his wallet, got in the car, and slowly came to the front door. Out came the businessman. This day he was bleary-eyed, and barely kept erect from the door to the limo, but he climbed in. The chaffeur didn't think much of it.
After closing the back door to the limo, thus spoke the businessman:
"Hey, buddy, I got some fabulous weed here, Acapulco Gold mixed with Maui Wowie, we're talkin' guroooooovie! It'll take you to a higher state of consciousness, and let you see things from a broad new perspective, it'll unleash your kundalini-"
The businessman went on and on, extolling the virtues of this rad herb, but the chaffeur quickly lost the thread of this speech, if there was one. His eyes glazed over, the world began spinning, his stomach churned, and a horrible ache afflicted his head. To himself he thought:
"I could, a. smoke it and go, b. open the door, start walking, and never look back, or c. tell this moron to shut up and quit being a backseat driver."
But the chaffeur valued his life, he loved to drive, and he worried about angering the businessman's uncle if the businessman took the chiding the wrong way. He reached for his pocket, and lucky for him, right there was a bag of parsely he bought early that morning to bring to his dear mother. "She won't mind," he thought.
"Sure, let's go to the astral plane!" said the chaffeur, discreetly rolling the oregano into a fat joint.
For the next few years, every morning they would begin this way. The businessman began coughing a lot more. His eyes grew redder, and his mind wasn't as sharp as it used to be, not that it ever mattered. The smell of the hideous drug grew stronger every day, but the chaffeur didn't know of the effects of the contact high. One day, though, this arrangement lost all semblance of tolerability, when the businessman pulled out from his briefcase, a crackpipe.
Well, I do not think we need to go further down the tale. You know what happened. So let us return to our realm. If you ever hear someone from a non-technical field speak of something as "postmodern," "post-structuralist," "deconstructed," or any similar nonsense, remember that the proper course of action is a judicious application of a backhanded pimp-slap.
If said person begins talking of "critical thinking," a blunt object is imperative for an adequate therapeutic effect.
Most important of all, though, is the immediate committal of any person who speaks of "self-actualization" to an appropriate psychiatric facility.
And just remember, boys and girls, say no to crack. Humanity's fate is in your hands.