Is there an illness common to all of us, something not even medicine can tackle - a sort of incurable, long episode of Love Island?
"Perhaps," said the Philosopher. "But I would rather submit myself to the mysteries of waterboarding than watch an episode of that. You want to challenge me intellectually? Bring me an episode of the Jeremy Kyle Show."
We gathered around the Philosopher every evening, attempting to emulate his almost divine wisdom. Instead, we would end up digesting cheap Aldi wine and wondering why we didn't choose paint stripper instead, as it would have tasted the same. We mostly looked at memes and released drunk farts, whilst the Philosopher described his views on life and occasionally picked his nose in the most serene manner.
"I don't like discussion, especially arguing, as I think argument is an exercise in ignorance. How can someone prove whether they are right or wrong? Opinions are immaterial as we can't prove them scientifically... so what we can discuss are the morals behind each idea or person. Which is better, Jabba the Hutt or Chewbacca? Corbyn or May? Obi-Wan or Palpatine? A pointless exercise, although I must point out the DUP is to Theresa May what Jar Jar Binks was to Darth Sidious."
We looked at each other silently and heard a rattling noise in one of the bushes nearby as we sat around the fire. I got up to check if it was some sort of wild animal only to find it was nothing as dangerous but merely Hansel, one of our loyal students, masturbating.
"Politics bore me. Unlike Hannibal Lecter, I have very little interest in seasoned politicians," said the Philosopher.
"So what interests you, honorable Philosopher?" I asked. He paused for a second and looked at me with sweet eyes, sweeter than those of a prostitute from Prague who is about to mug you at knifepoint.
"We have been questioning ourselves since the dawn of time: is there life after death? This is something many religions have attempted to answer, and in my view failed. Because perhaps the foolishness lies not in the answer but the question itself. Do we need life after death? Do we need a perpetual cycle of tiny Donald Trump hands sexually assaulting us? Perhaps we don't. But there is a sort of life after death. Or have you not witnessed the faces of these celebrities after a plastic surgery? These people, who clearly belong more in the set of The Walking Dead than on Celebrity Big Brother prove that."
"Life after death is no mystery. A mystery is who the hell is writing the lyrics to Nicki Minaj's songs, these deep and thoughtful poems, chronicle to the life of this somehow famous singer whose butt looks like a road roller. In a sense, it gives hope to all of us who are intellectually challenged, I suppose."