Life's Unanswerable Questions

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Since the invention of the toilet, philosophers have theorised on and contemplated the unanswerable questions in life.

Since the birth of time, there have existed many questions which man has struggled to find the meaning for. Queries which Philosophers through the ages have endeavoured to search for the answer to. This is conclusive proof that there remain certain aspects of our world that mankind (or even womankind, for that matter, though it may come as a bit of a surprise) cannot begin to comprehend. We, as mere mortals have struggled to cope with the vastness of existence.

Even The Theory of everything has its flaws: it assumes people are naturally naive and liable to believe everything they read. However, nothing should be taken at face value, as those that destroyed all their electrical appliances for fear of suffering at the hands of the Millennium Bug will testify.

They have remained unanswered. Until now. Contained on this page are the answers to some of those unanswerable questions in life, condensed into an Uncyclopedia article for ease of digestion.

What came first, the chicken or the egg?


"Mr. Howard, do you prefer jam or butter on your toast?"

Some purport that the chicken would always come first in any race, as eggs generally don't have legs. I suppose someone could roll the egg along with a long stick, but then that would be cheating.

Plus it's likely that the chicken would resort to cannibalism and eat the egg, especially if these are battery hens we're talking about here.

Mind you, chickens are fairly erratic at the best of times. Personally, I'd put money on the egg, but only if the chicken was headless.

Further reference

Why does your toast always land butter side down?


"The truth of the matter is that one must contemplate the options..."

Serves you right for being greedy and buttering both sides.

Attach a cat to the bread prior to buttering. Since cats always land on their feet, the bread is certain to land butter side up. Remember to de-attach the cat before eating, however, or things could get messy. Also beware of using dogs, rats or manatees as a substitute for a cat, as they'll just eat your bread and your butter and you may starve. There is a possibility of contracting rabies.

Alternatively, don't butter your toast at all.

Is my glass half full or half empty?


"Just answer the bloomin' question!"

Neither, if what happens at my local is anything to go by.

If my glass is half full, you'd better get me a refill. If it's half empty, you'd better not have spilled my pint.

“You startin'?”
~ Bloke in pub on His glass being half empty

Why don't the people on Eastenders ever watch Telly?

Some say this is because they are stuck in the past. However the actual reasons are varied: some of them can't afford a television license as is typical of the poverty stricken East-end of London. Others in the show refuse to watch the rubbish acting the BBC pass off as soaps these days. This is perhaps the only part of the show that has a semblance of reality. I mean, have you seen television nowadays?

Talk about breaking the fourth wall.

And, for some reason they never go to the toilet, sneeze or do anything 'normal'. That's because there is no toilet. The actors live on a rickety wooden set with no roof and huddle together in the winter like sheep to keep warm. Occasionally, they are allowed the luxury of being allowed to venture out of their confines to attend such events as The National Soap Awards and public hangings. Many report not having been able to distinguish between the two.

And what the hell is so good about Eastenders anyway?

It's not Neighbours. Nuff said.

Is there a God?


Is this photograph proof of God's existence?

No, because we're all going to die. Or should that be: yes, because we're all going to die?

There is the point of view that God exists, only in the form of the face of a popular fast food company. However this is just stupid: why would God have a moustache? You'd think his face would automatically shave itself.

The real answer is that Gods are like a London bus. You wait forever for one and a thousand come along. There are Gods of Earth and of wind, even of spontaneous combustion. The God of Gods, being the modern man that he is, allows humans the choice of which God to worship, be it St. Chav, the Almighty Big Brother or Gary Lineker. He also hoovers and irons on Wednesdays.

So, who is this 'God of Gods'?

Nobody knows, though he is reported to be working on a building site in Cheam, to be living on an island with Elvis, or even living in the form of Rolf Harris. This would explain the number of people that tune in to Animal Hospital each week: perhaps they are hoping for a televised judgement day, live from Anrich Veterinary Hospital, Wigan.

Further reference

What happens when I die?

We take your wallet, steal your identity and run a drugs ring out of your house. For years, we live off your life's savings and live the high life in Southampton. Some fat guy cops off with your boyfriend/girlfriend/other half, and we sell your life story to the News of the World. Then, we tell your family you are in a Japanese prison where no visitors are allowed and there is nothing to eat but rice cakes and vinegar. Finally, we crash your car into the front of a police station and cover your granny's car in custard. Oh yeah, and we 'recycle' all your porn before sending it in a parcel to your family.

But what would you care? You'd be dead.

Why are we really here?

It's The Big One. Not the rollercoaster at Blackpool or the fat guy that sits next to you the bus, but the most asked question by philosophers and thinkers alike since man invented the toilet. No, not why Eric Cantona insists on wearing his collar upturned like he's about to put on a tie at any point during a match. Why the hell are we here? What is our purpose in life?


"When the seagulls fly over the trawler, by a sea of rusting Volvos, recycled Coca Cola bottles..."
Eric Cantona: just why?

Well, the only certain thing about life is death. Yeah, the reason we live is to die. But first, it seems, one has to experience cheese rolling, the thrill of running over a dead cat and pelting John Prescott with eggs before they have truly 'lived'. Alternatively you could just stay at home watching football and eating McDonalds every day. That works just as well.

For you see, life is all about making your own choices. Whether to go to work naked or in a chicken suit, to see what happens if you put a rat in the microwave, to poke your manager in the eye with a banana or a custard pie. You live and die by your decisions (or lack thereof, in the case of whether or not to ignore that 'live wires' sign).

And it's not as if anyone is arsed about you. You are just one, insignificant speck on the landscape, a dog hair in your lasagne, another brick in the wall. That is, unless you are a talentless nobody that just so happens to be the offspring of a mega-rich businessman, in which case you can do no wrong.

But the author digresses

The real meaning of life differs slightly according to one's social status.

  • 'Working Class': Be Bumfight world champion.
  • Middle Class': Get a fricking job. Punch that Robbie Williams square in the face in the square face.
  • Upper class: Get pissed, nick a trolley from Tescos and ride down the high street at 3AM and throw bricks at the windows of shops.

So, it seems everyone has one thing in common. We all secretly want to be a tramp.

Further reference

In closing


"If pushed, I might say margarine, but only the low fat variety..."

Thus concludes this wade through the depths of human consciousness. But what's that I hear you think? This guide is not as conclusive as it might have been? What of the real solution to the Da Vinci code? Why can one never eat 100% of a Cadbury's Flake? And why does George Bush walk like he's holding two sheep under his arms? These things are sent to challenge us. After all, what is the meaning of existence without contemplation?

Oh, OK. It's alcohol chocolate running down Market Street naked whilst consuming a large cream cake in the rush hour, pursued by ten cops on rickety old bicycles.

Further reading

See also

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