In honour of the late, great, first professor of hipology, His Royal Hipness, Lord Buckley, here are the words of some philosophy cats, hipsemantic style...
"When we cats run over the warehouses of the fat books, fingers poppin', what bad jazz must we blow? If we take in our wing-tip any big book about the Jehovah Cat, or that all high flip-out in orbit mother to end all mothers jazz, for instance, let us appeal, does it contain any wig-licks concerning how we count our greenery? No. Does it contain any licks about the kicks of the case and the whole-gig? No. Whip it then to heat city, for it can contain nothing but gags and zigzags."
"Was I not, therefore, also diggin' that I was in Endsville? No indeed; I was no way through with my gig, by the kick that I was diggin', or indeed by the mere kick that I dug at all. But there is some twisted image of the Nazz's daddy, a steel-tailed Vesuvius reaching for Pompeii, who constantly uses all his wiggage to make me buy his gags. There is a full kick that I dig, if I buy his gags; and let me buy his gags as much as he likes, he can never stop my gig, so long as I dig that I am diggin'. So that, after blowing this wig bubble real slow, and covering even the tips of the rippety zip, a cat must then, in conclusion, take as a stiffer riff, that the lick: I dig, I'm diggin', is the fullest of kicks, every time I straighten it or get with it in my wig."
