Where have we been and who cares anyway?

I've lost some weight, haven't I?

Ah yes, a long lull here at the Planetary Panopticon and largely because most of the staff at the Mt. Palomine Institute had ample genuine work scheduled and this thing-called-a-blog simply slipped from our collective minds (and collective they are, as we have a hive mentality--do join us or fear us!) much like a miniature and worthless bar of motel soap would slip unnoticed from the rim of a bathtub into the impenetrable Herr Bubbled water. We do have lives, you may well know, and hobbies, and laundry to process and hang with sprung wooden pinchers from horizontally oriented ropes. This piddly thingamabob read by no more than six sober citizens is scarcely the fulcrum of our existences. A number of salient points that have kept us at remove from, to make beginnings with, Peeper Galactic Control:

1. The entire "Urther" prophet-as-horrorist-Peanuts-character farce left us drained of all energy, good will, and goodly humor. There's been heated discussion in the Institute cafeteria regarding the pluses and minuses of unplugging the trans-dimensional "Peeper" device that enables us to visually scour our appalling Echo World dubbed "da Urth," and restoring its complex components respectively to the 4th floor washroom and Dave Dimp's portable Nipponinc-manufactured wireless (tuned perennially to "E-Z listening Newz" when not locked bull-dog-like upon his favored Sprechstimme symphonic doo-wop). This allowing us to continue on with our cheerful and much saner-seeming Erden lives.
2. Recent news that the "Urther" Assistant Pez-head-ent assaulted an elderly necropolis director with a blunderbuss because the funereal presence was "grousing" about something in the Bush, has added to our overall disillusionment. We know that this Cheese-knees fellow does not permit criticism, but his projectiled mayhem is excessive, even by psychotic "Urther" social-interactive principles. Certainly one of his aides--a youthful Red-Stater perhaps with keener eyesight, steadier aim, and more overwrought firearm, a bazooka perhaps (as is possible on that world of homicidal maniac mechanics)--could have performed the task more "cleanly" (as one might euphemize like an "Urther"). Rather, a wounded and maddened bull funeral director with 12-point rack now ranges across the gutted landscape of Merka seeking vengeance, and the populace are angered that they weren't immediately alerted to the danger, enabling them to seal their homes and recall their zombie progeny from various glowing screens.
3. As if mere cartoons were not ample to stir up nests of hornets, daguerreotypes of yet more Houdini-esque inflictions upon Muggalumpers, Mothespians, and Bush-babies by the Merkans are encirculating that tainted globe; one would almost suspect that airspace enlivened with shouting and wildly gesticulating stinging insects was the desired and planned-for result. That, or newspaper circulation in overheated regions soars when insults are offered aside the market coupons offering praiseworthy price reductions on fragmentary carpetry, Russlander weaponry, and steamed turbanes. Notwithstanding, the stratagem of the increasingly hyper-distended Merken government would appear to be the expensive conquest of worthless tracts of land and the escape-artist and endurance testing of the excitable sorts within the enslaved citizenry, perhaps with the eventual hope of creating either a durable master-race or a host of fresh contestants for competitive reality-based Optical Wireless programmings. Imperial francs are being placed on the barrel heads during Institute cafeteria imbroglios to the gambling effect that while "da Urth" is generally a sad and childish place (about age 5, overall), the Merkans, once a semi-noble tabula rasa-ed "Great Wiped Hope," have devolved to the comic-tragic level where they no longer even grasp why they venture onto Distant Quests and Crusades. Most of their activities these last befuddled years--from those of the lowliest Blue-Stater banning language and constructing un-poetic differently-unabled euphemisms, to the lofting-worthy (as from a cannon) Red-Stater insisting on the enforced promulgating of the Kindergarten faerie-telling that the Multiverse was conjured up as if by bearded flour-sack-garbed dime-store magician (when, in fact, the job was parceled out, contract-wise, to a bevy of incompetent Creatrix ditzes--witness our current Erden lawsuits!)--may be analogous to the random out-thrashings of a night-mared sleeper, or the continued growth of hair and such other unspeakable vilenesses on long-buried corpses.