There came a day in a required philosophy class that I totally took against my will where some nimrod punk-ass dipshit had been all "But what is truth?" to the point that I fully expected my nose to start bleeding, my blood pressure had shot up so much. I finally lost my shit when the braintrust asked how we could know -- really know -- that this book was actually a book. As I packed my things and walked out of the class, I assured him that he might not be able to tell the book was actually a book but he was sure as fuck about to find out it was a suppository.
Context is reading Kant with its colon.