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Professor Pille's Planetary Panopticon

Currently under advisement and endless reconstruction. Perhaps confusing yet amusing. A highly vulnerable manifestation of the internationally-regarded Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries and its founder, the venerable Professor Antonio Pille. Dedicated with warmest regards to the varied ghosts of Aristophanes, Rabelais, Swift, Sterne, Jarry, Mencken, Baron Munchhausen, and the gentle and honorable Robert Benchley.

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Location: Portville, Narragansett National District

Sunday, December 25, 2005

Histofactoid: The Floating Capital circa 1911 AP... or perhaps today?

A Heck of a Town!
Ask any Floating Capitaller (they jokingly refer to themselves as Caterpillars!) what they love best about their city (aside from baseball, of course!) and the answer will invariably be the glorious parks that adorn this most civil and cultured of urban confections. In the distance on this delightful old rendering of the great metropolis, one may see depicted the now-recently restored Singer Tower and, of course, the familiar Metropolitan Life building! Today, in 2006 AP the steamships have stack-scrubbers and a full score of newer towers have been erected further up the island but otherwise we find little has changed since this splendid view was drawn; if anything, there are more parks and trees. Also, the Floating Capital now has the finest and safest mass-transit system in the world and plenty of fresh air. Praise Wotan--while other nations have cluttered their urban zones with either chintzy and visually abhorrent glass towers lacking all tasteful adornments, or grotesque parodies of the architectural glories of The Floating Capital, we have preserved and maintained those structures of highest quality and greatest artistic merit. Subsequently we offer up what many consider to be the most beautiful city on Erde. Agog tourists hailing from the sprawling, mayhem-riddled, conurbations of The People's Paradises of Tic-Toc, Nipponinc, and elsewhere--cities whose very molecules are determined by the flow of lucre rather than the force of reason or the desire for civility--contribute mightily each year to The Floating Capital's coffers!

Saturday, December 24, 2005

Beswept by Turbifying Exhaustions and Penumbrances, yet Jollymaking Nonetheless!

This Pille and Yours to take Two of if Headached--I am
Yet another passage of a full-blown Jahre draws nigh upon the ever-tumbling yet kissable Gesicht of lustrous Erde; Santariamas is a mere spluttering sweep of sign-languaging hands ahead of us, and Old Nick--cloudward-lofted in his Saucy Rhine Maiden-hauled tobagganary (On Lapdancer! On Vixen!...etcetera)--will be "strafing" the countryside (and accessible urbanized districts sans festive barrage balloons) with glacines of cheer and cartons of gaily tied rope. Tis in the seasoning, as the les jongleurs du Albion oft maintain twixt sips. Meanwhile, the gaslights of the Institute have been dimmed for the Howlingday Season interim and our inebriate-cudgeled ratiocinations hover anesthetically atop both the immediate celebrations and the advanced cerebrations of this now nearly voided "Three-sixty-five-er". Head and limbs above all else, the bottommost lauded event would be the uncovery, via a fantastical gizmo that encumbered the Institute coffers by a niggardly (Oh do look it up ye torch-wielding chasers of monsters!) fistful of francs, of the vile dwarfish Echo World we reluctantly dub "Da Urth." Contrasted to the survey and circumambulation of this putrid objectus animositus of achingly diminishing interest, water closet porcelain cleansing and equine post-diarrhettic stable roistering would be gripped tightly (albeit unsanitarily) as galloping Paradise! More on this, and perhaps commentary on the recent critiques of Santariamas greeting traditions by puzzle-headed nincompoops, following some non-stopped quaffing of traditional-ed Santariamas toddlers of bubblymead, and a microtome-thin slice or two of cinnamoned banananomad bread. Jolly Santariamas to Alle! (... and may the new year of 2006 Anno Pilatum see the limitless annihilation of knavery, fooltomishness, and witdimmery both here--where it is not so much necessitated, praise Wotan--and on "Da Urth" where it may soon be an issue of vie vs. mort, as was settled centuries ago by our own Highest Court)

Friday, December 23, 2005

"Ring a Gong Wrong"--a New Moving Picture Epic by Maori National District's Herr P. Jackson


I'm Walkin' on my Knuckles Here! --Wandering Jeweler loses Precious Ring and becomes Monkey with Monkey on Back... on Back of Yet Another Monkey!
An immense, romantic, oversexed, yet wholly artificial Afrique simian-boxer--"King" Congruous-- partners with a whiny, genetically misshapen, and equally pixilated Semite named "Mo" Schmiegel in an awkward and fantasy-prone tribute to director Nick Cervantes' ancient Gene Wilder/Richard Pryor stopped-action melodramas. Tragedy overwhelms the haplessly asymmetric duo when, following a joust with a taunting windmill and an altercation about someone's reluctant ass, they indulge in an argument regarding the pros and cons of circumcision while at the uppermost observation deck of what really isn't a Titanic urban metaphor, but is a concretization of economic meta-for(mulae)--much like a moving picture be. During their sweat-drenched struggle, these professional ex-cons--victims of the soundtrack's bad rap--inadvertently interlock gold jewelry, stumble, careen through an all-seeing monocle and launch themselves clear off the pinnacle of the throbbing skyscraper into the passionate red-hot river of languorously flowing noon-time traffic below. "Twas booty killed these beasts," mutters a witty PhD-holding Ukrainian cabbie as he gestures futilely at a Green Screen two thousand miles away and then ponders if, in his lifetime, this brilliant Triple Entendre will ever be recognized and appreciated for what it is --a deft political response to the Grand Alliance! The moving picture thus grinds forcefully into its Gotterdammerung-like Ende, symbolically rolling eyes and credits from the ground up--heavenward if you will--and beyond the reach of the tower's rapidly deflating Zeppelin mast and protective screen of T-28D Trojan fighter bombers. This non-corporeal ascent is accompanied by rhythmic-yet-cloying children's sing-song, and heart-rending retail promotions of the last chance variety. We at the Institute give it one big opposable thumb-up and will place this "talkie" onto heavy rotations.
[Ed: Jackson also directed the popular species barrier-breaking apocalyptic jurisprudence epic, Twelve Angry Monkeys, and the socially devolved Inherit the Jungle--based on the true story of the trials and tribulations of a citizen-monkey educator named Scopes who taught industrial design to illiterate anthropocentric farmhands in the hinterlands]

Saturday, December 17, 2005

Institute Linguaphysicists Develop Method of Diagramming "Life" Sentences on a Blackboard

Friday, December 16, 2005

Sailing or Flying Through Space--the Mt. Palomine Institute Clarifies


A Model of the Universe: One-Dimensional Representations of Non-Dimensional Absolute Objects in Equipoise within a Simulated Infinite Tropical Fish Tank with Tropical Fish Removed Solely for Illustrative Purposes
Gravity may be defined as the complex interrelationship of back-pressures exerted between the metaphorical "shadows"
Upcoming

Semi-Finals!

Robot Slug-fest N.O.W. Broadcast Features Semi-Finalists
Perennial blue-staters battle with self creates a golden-opportunity-archway big enough for opponents in next contest to drive all sorts of hefty things through. Leftish blue robot historically wants slightly more of less, rightish one traditionally, slightly less of more. There're just no compromises on unimportant issues and politically correct nitpicking as Big Red Tugboat sits at sidelines always ready to trundle through opening, just as it did some very few years ago! Toot! Toot!

See Below

Pictographic Life Stripped to its Bare Essences

How to Read Professor Pille's Planetary Panopticon

The Written Version of Pille-speak
Upcoming story: The postings for Professor Pille's Planetary Panopticon are written in an arcane language called "Language" and, for this reason they appear utterly intractable for many readers. We may have a solution--our Institute psycho-linguists are working out an elaborate and sophisticated pictographic method of visual communication. Seen above is about 30% of the full lexicon needed for modern communication.

"Peeper's" Jeepers, what Creepers!


No Standards, Rigorously and Uniformly Maintained

[Ed: Professor Pille is handling the "incident" directly below, inquiring with his legal team as to if it is truly homicide if no hom is involved] Anyway, "Der Peeper" personnel, peering at the goings-on of our awful Echo World, "Da Urth" came across this conundrum, one example of numbers of this type we find there (the word hypocrisy surely comes to thought). Overheard was a motorized conversation between two individual "Urthers" about the educational credentials of their current red-state leader, stimulated by a broadcast emanating from a National Public Wireless station. They seemed scandalized by the existence of something called a "Gentleman's C." Aside from the laughability of even the idea of a "gentleman" existing anywhere on that churning cauldron of twaddle, our ever-alert crew noted the presence, on the collision-protector of the horseless carriage delivering the shocked ditherers to the gaping "Maul," of a collision-protector adhesive broadside that proclaimed "Every Student is an Honored Student at JFK High." There was some confusion about the JFK reference--we do know this "Urth" historical character indulged in pharmaceuticals and such but the context seemed odd--otherwise Team Peeper experienced complete bewilderment regarding the striking disjunction 'tween the demand-for-standards voiced by the driver's loosely-hinged mouth and the simultaneous refutation of them plastered to the posterior of her grotesquely large Mechanical Ass (a gargantuan Futility Vehicle of some ornamental facture). We are researching this further as we, that very same day, encountered an excited alarum regarding environmental deterioration affixed adjacent an exhaust vent on yet another vehicle (a Sue-Brew wagon)! Supposedly a "peepingly" nearby institution of lower learning--a veritable gnat swarm of red-state and "PEZ-head-ent" vilifiers--abjures standards of excellence altogether while it contradictorily revels in the self-proclaimed superiority of their bold nihilistic schema! Their system does work as the school consistently expectorates top-drawer Know-Nothings, saboteurs, and Luddites. We are also considering shorter rotation periods for "Peeper" personnel as they are constantly being bludgeoned with cognitive dissonance and made grievously ill.


Thursday, December 15, 2005

Whenever You Think, Think PILLEBOX!

Time to "Brand" this Potential Cash Cow
Fun is fun, and I'm sure all of us here at Blogger are enjoying goofing around with our little blogs and such, like poopie-pants kiddies playing with musical toy Hummers, pot-metal politicians, and Paris Hilton dummy-dolls. Unfortunately, little of what we do matters...to anyone who really matters. Without a noticeable cash-flow potential of the sort that needs to be measured with multi-meter-diameter plumbing appurtenances--all this online verbiage is so much monkey house roughage and frottage at the Multinational Zoo. Big huge giant global corporations, like YANG, the biggest ever--so big you've never seen it or heard of it because you are mere bugs scuttling around its feet, so overwhelming it can annually offer up its CEO as a human sacrifice--are looking for new ways to maximize the flow of vital juices from vast geological formations by utilizing high compression, or are seeking better uses for billions of cubic meters of industrial smoke and precision-ground mirror arrays that cover hundreds of kilometers of desert. They're not concerned with pusillanimous typographic poetry or artsy black and white photographs of your feet; in fact, the average executive today buys entire art student portfolios, manuscripts for "edgy" novels, self-published books of raging iambic pentameter, simply to use as novelty executive washroom toilet paper. You didn't know that did you? Remember Piss Christ? Well a top exec paid millions for it and installed it as a sort of urinal cake paperweight, within a functioning gold-plated urinal--fathom the irony of that! Another trillionaire had a Basquiat sliced up and "joke" air-sickness bags for his private 747 stitched from the bits! We can scribble all we want about our friends, our opinions, and our thoughts about rainy days, but unless it's pounding out a six-figure income for someone, or getting full-page spreads in Wire or People magazine, it's all no different than what some 12-year-old girl would have been doing under the stairs with a bottle of scotch, and a dollar-store diary--years ago, before the Inter-knit began dominating every waking moment of our worthless lives. So, with only profits and media attention (i.e. more profits) in mind, The Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries Inc. (please note) is proud to announce the "launch"--as business-savvy people are wont to say--of PILLEBOX (copy-written), a new and unavoidably lucrative Inter-knit service. PILLEBOX will cut to the chase. PILLEBOX will use sophisticated marketing research techniques to turn over mossy rocks and reveal what it is people are willing to shell out virtual cash for. PILLEBOX will obtain the public's deepest desires from Third World countries, and at the lowest possible cost to ourselves. PILLEBOX will market the goodies via the Inter-knit (and at stupendous markup) to geeks and geekettes trained as mindless consumers by us through the media--which we will eventually dominate completely. Then you will sign up with PILLEBOX and pay us more money so we can pretend to teach you the same money-making methods or provide our "invaluable intangible services" that COST US NOTHING! Foetal dividing-cell implanted phone tyke-nologies? Think PILLEBOX. Disinformation multi-data monostat platform upchucks? Think PILLEBOX. Gone-to-market wetware dialysis? PILLEBOX. Organic wood mandibular interstitial particle relocators? Guess who? It's just that simple! Or it should be--why, it's already cost us 60,000 francs to come up with the PILLEBOX name and logo; that on top of what we spent for rumping up the PILLE-MART retail outlets and and PILLEMASTER product lines. Don't you love that bold, all upper-case thing and the dynamic brand image that's so vague we could use it to sell anything from diesel dish detergent to yummy doggie basquiats? That's ten impressions above, times how many "hits' on this site...hm-mm. Wow, I haven't even sold anything and we've already made millions! Oops, forgot about positioning! What position should we assume? Gotta run!

Sincerely, Tony Pille (being chased by Mt. Palomine security personnel even as I write this on the wireless lapsitter computing engine)

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Why Space Aliens Don't Matter One Tiddle

Battleship-Grey Alien Mother-Ship Steaming to Betelgeuse
(Choppy waters off coast of Neptune)
Upcoming Story: Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries commissioned by our Emperor and Empress to investigate bewildering reports of flying "buttresses," twinkling lights in the night sky, alien subductions, a frightening "ball of fire" seen in daytime (so bright it casts shadows!), ashtrays emptied in orbit, head-achy, dehydrated, and coughing cattle that have been mystifyingly "partied." Also allegations of unmarked stealth auto-gyros and Black Men in Slacks. Our conclusions may surprise you. [Ed: One big conclusion--there seems to be something Out There in Space that passing aliens regularly clobber their heads on. Dazed and bruised bearers of "intergalactic olive branches" and "apocalyptic warnings" stumble cross-eyed into our backwater solar system often not knowing what happened to them, or where the hell they are. (Imagine being knocked nearly senseless by a passing horseless carriage and dizzily wandering into, say, a small town bridal shop or slot-car racing enthusiast joint mumbling away like a lunatic--it's kind of like that for them). Usually, they're simply (yet painfully) trying to explain to terrified or enraptured folks that there's something out there one can hit ones head on, and either be careful or I'm calling my lawyer; we suspect it's just an exposed "pipe." Being alien beings, recovery is rapid, or they're soon retrieved by grouchy half-asleep relatives wearing (in a deeply disturbing alien sense) "overcoats over their pajamas," but in the meantime these disoriented space-men and women can also get into plenty of goofy trouble of the sort they're often very embarrassed about the next day. It's all so Frank Capra-esque]

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

How to Pronounce "Dohgorse"

Winsome dohgorse model Jayne Wayne of Neue Texico
Plenty of people have asked and it's easy as pineapple. First, start saying dog. Now just before you reach that glottal g, surprise your brain and abruptly begin saying horse. Once you've finished the h--holding, for a brief instant, with your mind (and oven mitts), the rapidly heating pooch in mid-air (see earlier post)--quickly round the hound off with an emphatic g (or belt sander) and resolutely continue along with the horse like nothing is wrong. Don't even look back to see what just happened. It's tricky, it requires molecular confidence, but once you get the hang of it you'll be orally splicing genes with the best of them!

One Hundred is Just Another Phone Number

Edward Armouralle: Infernal Paternal Eternal
We've reached the one-hundredth posting on this new venture into cultural-blogical-logical sabotage, [Ed: Saboblog?] in what the founder is now, in his own eponymously "pillogical" way, calling Applied Pillogic. Praise for our efforts has come from one of the untucked four corners of the world, and from a spot somewhat near the solar drain pipe up to our north. Criticism too, and concerns that we may have overstepped on feet now and then. Linx also have been born and raised--the Celtic-Corsican pirate queen The Erin, and El Llahh, the Scheherazade-like Songstress of the Cultural Deserts, have joined our crew in spirit at least as agents provocateurs without portfolio.. or cash. It's all one big ship of hearts, and club of fools, and it must be captained or wielded, like a shovel or steamboat or UPS shipment, by some one--and that some one one just might be my boss--the man who burns my paycheck every week, and shovels the coal that makes this tooting steamboat of nonsense plough relentlessly up the mountainside and on to infamy --Professor Antonio Pille. Happy Birthday I say, and, I'll add, good luck.

An Even (and very odd) One Hundred!


Our Centenary Posting!
To celebrate, in a miniscule manner, this one-hundredth (!) posting on our recently-founded "blog" of the Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries, I, Anatole Zliplitt, have the honor of presenting the worlds with a brace of new entries into the Grand Lexicon: pillogic and pillogical. (This brings the total number of words commonly used on Erde to 53,621 and on "Da Urth" to very nearly 163--motivation for "Urther" celebratory log-thumping and book burning!) Details upcoming. The Institute baker, obviously, had child-like difficulty with the spelling of our founder's surname, or was possibly still miffed about an earlier altercation involving muffins. To additionally mark this day, we have sent a challenge to the staff--such as their itchinesses may be--of the "Urthbound" stooping-to-conquer, mono-syllabic, Inter-knit-wittery known to dullards as Der Un-yun (currently posting hot-blooded critiques of potato-crisp ingesting computing engine geekoids, and a hard-boiled commentary on their Vice-dripping "PEZ-head-ent" named Cheese-knees that may well topple their government! As always, thumb on the pulse of a moribund "nation"--satires of dead things, as a groggy crab upon a poisoned corpse). Thankfully, we here on Erde, and at the Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries, with the treasured aid and cooperation of Wotan and the Creatrix, have gushed forth worlds damnably worthy of being made sport of!

Monday, December 12, 2005

Succulent Bejeebers! A Kindness! A Confection!

I Announce Today a Great and Mighty Link Across the Ethereal Trans-Nautical Abysses! (and a fish this big)

A electricity-generating factric has this moment wafted in from the gentle cirruses above, settled, adjusted its cumber-bum, and ambled drunkenly (yet stylishly) across the lustrous surface of my cooling spinet. Apparently mention has been made of this Institute, my Person, and the scientific/historical ramblings of my hired cohorts, within the flickering foolscap of another "Urthly" blog, floating--out there--in the dim and near-infinite Virtuality-Space! We are flattered, flattened, and fully fandangoed! The excited assembled staff--security, custodial, citizen-monkey, no exceptings--of the Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries has eye-balled this newly revealed companion--the creation of a comely, yet menacing (and surely stiletto- wielding!), Corsican who is made singular and re-findable with the Celtish-ringing handle, The Erin. She is indubitably a brain-hunkered lass; The Institute has universally pronounced the blog Golden with Oak-Leaf Cluster. An abruptly amour-stricken, moon-pied Director Zliplitt viewed one pic-choked entry on The Erin's blog and nuttily interrogated as to the identity of the, to quote, "sumptuous aryanesque blonde, the Wotanic vision of fjordian pulchritude, the embrasure-of-all-luminosity man would typically view capering coquettishly about the linoleumed halls of Valhalla in jewel-studded carpet slippers configured as hound dogs" that we find embedded sofa-wise behind the "besotted, Titania-seeking, humoresque" (Zliplitt's envy-forged words) dubbed a STACKHAUS in one of the myriad mirthful daguerreotypes of a fantastic orgy, appended to the impressive literary reminiscences of The Erin. By the instant he loudly began demanding a harquebus duel with the hapless STACKHAUS, an oaken bucket of water, heaved by a green-visaged custodial, cooled his ardor and soggily restored The Director's dignity. To survey what we have only moments ago seen within this "blog," to witness a creepily frigid record of leering, maddened, hormone-inflected males swinging about vine-draped mugs of mead; ankle-flashing, gyrating sirens, floozies, and strumpets caught doing the Hokey-Pokey and Charleston; a witless reckoning of wrecklessly abandoned wastrels; and obscene debauches of boxes o' booze ordered up for some birth-date bacchanalia, (along with somber notes and dry observations of the The Erin who deigned to roll out the understated assignation rambunctiously for the hell-bent hootenanny) then haul your haunted indexical across the glowing tablet before you, and hammer home most forcefully upon the linkage defined below as it was clogged with Cheeze-Its debris, and doused (as was everything, everywhere!) with aqueous budget inebriants, and is now quite jammed and rusted. Our thanks again for this free notice, and the attendant kind words, well plumbed and multi-syllabically "Pilled." We shall, with enthusiasm and inquisitivity, read through aloud this "blog" of The Erin's morsel by morsel during our daily Zack beverage break, anticipating added insights and further galleries of depravity.

http://littleknowntome.blogspot.com/

Sunday, December 11, 2005

Back to Blog: Our Story So Far...

  • Version Uno--When we last left our story dangling, Anther Bedloe, member of the world-famed circus percussionist act, The Nebulous Bedloes, had just discovered that Audry, his second wife, was a latent imbiber of fruit juices (LIFJ), so he turned her into the State Police, using forbidden knowledge and pedestrian magic.
  • Version Duo--It's nearly Santariamas and I haven't even started my shopping!! Meanwhile, up at the Norge Pole, Old Nick and his Saucy Rhinemaidens have decorated Santarialand in the traditionally lucrative green and gold of the holiday! Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets!
  • Version Thrace--Welcome to the world of Professor Antonio Buxtehude Pille, the Mt. Palomine Insititute of Mysteries, and the glorious Planet of Erde which has only an oblique and distorted resemblance to a nasty little parallel universe world we recently discovered, called by its grunting troglodyte inhabitants "Da Urth." Please scout through the ARCHIVES if interested as this is all far more untidy than it seems right here.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Khameleonism Explained

Khamel Leone--Philosophical Shape-Shifter and Uniformed Jerk
If the Khameleonist Philosophical Credo was just "whatever, dude" that would be one undersized trout to toss back into the steam tanks. Unfortunately, Khameleonists adopt whatever philosophical premise they need to keep them employed as philosophers, meaning they have keen senses for marketing and grant maggotry (like most "Urth" scholars). They also sell well-built, internally consistent, tautologically guaranteed (good for five years or full refund) philosophies to those individuals or organizations needing a rationalization for dismal behavior, making them the intellectual "arms" dealers of the world. Recently they supplied a sagging and diminishing Gaul with a full kit of critical ice-picks, blow-torches, and sledgehammers--Gaul's desperate last bid for intellectual/aesthetic power in an ever-changing Erde--and, via a now-capsized dummy agent named Andrea Doria-Mwunchkins (she married Colonel Kernelle Mwunchkins--the anorexic Olympic philatelist), foisted a wobbly stack of bad ideas on a bevy of hyperventilating Erden females when all the gaspers needed was fresh water and sunshine! Notoriously colorblind Andrea is best known for her famous diktatum--all grass is blue--and she'd pummel the snot out of anyone who disagreed, as would her devoted followers (After bankrupting 16 lawn care companies and making millions of grass lovers feel guilty and miserable, she finally casually admitted, oops, it was probably green after all). Khameleonists also provided many stubbornly independent Liberterrible-two-ians with a conceptual rental-truckload full of fertilizer: the idea that a whole planetful of toddlers was a good and naturally lawful thing. Unlike Pilatists, who recognize a multiplicity of eternal, unyielding, unchanging and thoroughly contradictory "Truths," Khameleonists rely upon and perpetuate the myth that each New Big Thing is The Final Soul-ution--a Weltanschauung that generally appeals to kids of all ages and Der Lower Household Pets (fiddler crabs, hamsters, chias, etc.). It's just more proof that the Khameleonists are well-versed in marketing theory and were once in cahoots with the thankfully long-dead Corporealate Sponges (see earlier posting). Confused? Well that's what we want, and what Khameleonists can remedy, at the cost of your immortal soul. Upcoming: more detailed story on Khamel Leone, the worst, or at least most irresponsible, philosopher that ever lived... and bane of the noble Pilatists.

Red State/Blue State, Baalist/Kristaluthian Tag Team Matches Scheduled for National Optical Wireless Broadcast

"Red" Kristaluthian (left, now Right) was former Ye Olde Kommie, now True Khameleonist, not Anole
Upcoming story: Maximally confusing robot slug-fest broadcast will feature shape shifting tag teams, side-changing participants, robots of all races and creeds. Final End Times midnight death match features faux of-the-people redneck free-world leader robot versus faux of-the-people bluecollar media pundit robot in absurdly illogical parody of internecine class-struggle that will have spectators wetting their lips and pursing their pants. In turn, Khameleonists might be Baalists, might be Kristaluthians, and Baalists might be Bykists, depending on which way you tilt your shot glass. Result is always the same, though--a cut and bloodied nose!

Friday, December 02, 2005

"Red State Riders" Tragically Amuse Crowds at KRASCAR rally

Sadly, we learned that following the parody roundup ride depicted above, the Dohgorse--Herr Old Blue--ate the unidentified citizen-monkey. "It was quite a workout and I wuz hungry!" explained Old Blue. KRASCAR organizers vow to use only the well-trained Imperial Balucatheriums in follow-up events; Dohgorses have proved too dangerous. Citizen-monkey guilds are preparing a protest to the Imperial Baseball Commissioner since this will mean loss of work--a citizen-monkey can no more guide a Balucatherium than a flea an Iron Horse! The Empress is expected to intervene as one of her many responsibilities is Protector and Benefactress of Citizen-Monkeys. Dohgorses across the Empire are growling and pawing at their food bowls. We're expecting quite a row over this incident, especially if the katz get involved! Stay tuned.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Equal Time for Kultur Abuse from Director Zliplitt

No Limit and It's Always Open Season!
I am reluctantly urged to action, as my office has received a smattering of verbal complaints, telegrams, and electronical mailings from "Urthers" to the effect that we have been trouncing unfairly on the wide ranging of nincompoops afflicting both our fair Erde (minimally--nuisance value only) and, to a stunning degree, that absurd mirror-world place known as "Da Urth." To atone for our gross insensitivities, I, Anatole Zliplitt, Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries Director of Public Assuagement, have issued orders to the effect that Institute employees should at all times show thunderous respect and admiration for the silly superstitions and laughable hypocrisies of all the "da Urth's" and Erde's fools, buffoons and microcephaloids. We shall instead focus our spleen (an internally painful task!) on the one group of individuals strangely left unshielded by "Da Urth's" spell-checkers, namely: hick, hillbilly, red state, redneck, religious kooks. We find this asymmetric state of affairs somewhat amusing, as the "protectionists" are generally prepared to "go to bat" for nearly any other group of dipsy-doodles, many of whom would flay and salt these self-same respecters at the drop of a zany configuration of felt that might be a hat. However, we shall accept our openings as they materialize. The "Urthly" intelligentsia uniformly fail to coddle this sad-sack "culture," and actually encourage and engage in widespread abuse of it, often depicting the transparently faux ignorant, redneck, hick, religious, leader, for example, as a chimp--something they would be loathe to do to any other world leader aside from the Chimp King, and (in a well-distributed parody cartograph) dubbing the red states--squalor-receptacles of the redneck religious kooks--as Jezzisland, an equivalency of insult that would never be applied elsewhere to territory of any other kooky kult. We now feel thoroughly unbridled, at least within this tightly circumscribed realm, to a degree we would not have previously offered to ourselves--much like a glutton permitted not only to loosen belt, but remove pants entirely at the dinner table! Judging from samples dating back decades, nay, even to an ancient Civil Disturbance, no offense is disallowed in critiques of this so-called bumpkin culture! Astonishingly, precedent may be found for this exception-in-Universal-Axiom if one delves back years into the dismal historical record of "Da Urth" and to the scribings of the briefly popular A. Heetiler (No passion-object of blue-staters!), who, in his best-seller, Mein Kampf mit mein Hosen (My Struggle with My Pants), neatly rectified a similar inconsistency by redefining his perceived enemies as not being human at all. The common depiction of the faux redneck leader as an ape (gracing the cover of one periodical mere moments after his ascendancy!), and the reams of sanctioned vilification and slander directed at the hick, red state, redneck, religious, kooks (oddly, much supplied by a popular faux egalitarian worker-slob) would confirm this suspicion that the "protectionists" have dubbed the "Urther" hayseeds sub-human and therefore not worthy of the respect they'd accord a Spotted Owl (a delicacy among Native-Americans!) or Eskimo (also good eats!). Regardless, the Institute, prescient as ever, ambled mirthfully into this eventuality and we find that our oft-misperceived satire actually amplifies in righteousness and rectitude by adhering to our newly developed ruling, being: Hands off the multiplicity of Kulturen of "Da Urth," but red-staters are Fair Game. As a result, we expect this site will become favored among the hip and sophisticated of their benighted coastal realms, criticism of our cause will plummet to zilch, praise will issue forth as from a cornucopia of knee-jerk concurrence, and the subhuman denizens of Jezzisland will mutely accept us as yet another tritely abusive organ of the sensitive and caring "Urther" blue-staters. Here, however, on munificent Erde, we have been chided by the Citizen-Monkeys under the protection of The Empress for unfairness of a different sort entirely: we previously alluded to a discredited theory of one C. Darwin of Albion that intimates there may be linkages between Citizen-Monkeys and human-kind, a theory so outrageous to all self-respecting Citizen-Monkeys that they have petitioned for severe laws to prevent dispersion of the "blasphemy." Also noted was an angry letter from a schismatic Bykist (a break-off Baalist sect) asserting that, in fact, the chicken came before the egg, as Baal willed it at his Ascension to the Seat of the Chopper. Nations have been toppled, cities reduced to rubble, nautical abysses drained and lined with tin foil, over this irresolvable Gordian-Knot-like poultresquery. Such is controversy on Erde!