Director Zliplitt: Merkans, in truth, "in thrall" to fat jackasses

Yes, Saint Michael, you're all stupid

[From the oaken rolltop of Director Anatole Zliplitt]

Aeons ago (for "Urthers" only, yet a mere three swiftly passed years for the memory unimpaired and un-ADD-ed) the Merkan media dolt, presumed "film-maker," and spluttering fumarole, Michael the Moor, offered this ungenerous appraisal of his fellow Lap-top-landers--"They [Merkans] are possibly the dumbest people on the planet ... in thrall to conniving, thieving, smug pricks [...&tc. ad nauseum]" We here at the Institute found this a laughably obvious yet thoroughly plausible argument for non-resumption of free elections in that Wotan-accursed smudge. The folk there are transparently incapable of self-government (small surprise to Erdens!) and some manner of proper adult supervision should be ladled upon the entire dancing dervish of dither known as "da Urth," and not merely into the salacious helle-hole denoted Merka. Provided Michael excluded none contained within that broadest of categories--Merkans, and he being one, too--from his Judgement from on High, there was, on cursory examination of this predictable plume of puffery, no big news here.

Curiously, though, this jabbing judgement against fellow morons emanated from a booby well-prized by those same citizens who burble and croak endlessly about "communities" and "the Volk" and--odds bodkins--"democracy"! Their standard for good citizenship, no doubt, is acting in such a manner as to support their hobbyhorses (and it is--merely interrogate any "Blue-Stater" and be greeted with a cavalcade of presumptive arrogance in this regard). Their guiding principle is stated thusly: If you do not concur uncritically with our own high-grade blend of Tomfoolery and Ignorance you are clearly a moron, but we--being kind and caring i.e. nice smug pricks--will at least grant that you may be salvageable and worthy of conversion if you accept that your thoughts are not your own; you are an imbecile in helpless thrall to soulless hobgoblins." Based on this easy interpretation of the evidence, Erden psycho-analysts are convinced that Mr. Moor is autistic, terminally linear, bulbous with ego no less than with lard, and incapable of auspicious self-alert. The mental diseases of his followers may prove more elusive to nail.

The truthful evidence, however, is well-buttressed far beyond his initial self-serving platitude--our assuming he erroneously intended the Moor clan be exempted from condemnation. Knowledge of anything whatsoever, and good sense, are in catastrophic decline uniformly throughout Mr. D'Amour's waste/home-land. A graduate of fairly any Liberal (now Leftist) Arts collegium in the Blue States--a possessor no doubt of all the triple-chinned wonder's DVD and bookish marketing spoor--is as stone ignorant of history, geography, the sciences, and other "irrelevancies" (the fantastical romances of Herr Chomsky excepted) as the most inebriated Appalachian Australopithecine fast asleep on his tick-upholstered porch. This topsy-turvy state of affairs--where the "educated" are often the ignorant--has been present in Merka since the 60's Hippoid era when the over-fondled brat-ery of the 40's/50's Connubial Bonanza Times confronted their tenured overlords on the campuses and made it clear--in no uncertain temper tamtrum/potty training terms--that the "enlightened" poopy-pantsed babies (diaper-changing now revealed as further evidence of a most "naughty socio-political system") would now impose, by threat and fiat, curriculum upon the experienced adult elect. Within a decade, these self-same kiddies now "captained the school-transport" so-to-say, and vast portions of those enduring the educational system have had their unwashed noses buried in politically correct Golden Books and ethno-cultural Pat-the-Bunny ever since!

An insane notion, but Michael's much-abused common "Red-State," drawling, ring-wormed, idiot-savants may, in fact, be one-full-up on his self-satisfied bi-coastal cousins, as he or she will probably be neuro-connected enough to, at least, hoe a field, shoe a horse, mend a fence, or handily overhaul the "Tin Lizzy's" carburetor. Many bumpkins even possess--gasp--humility--a concept wholly unfamiliar to the New Unintelligentsia. Meanwhile, a matriculant (in the bladder-relief sense we've all dimly espied in that odd term) of most enlightened diploma-vending-machines cum brain-wash-clinics confronts any of life's non-virtual dilemmas with barely a worse-than-empty toolbox, and a gas inflated noggin congenitally directed up his or her posterior digestive egress! Abandoned to fate with a dead cellular telephone, a degree in Multicultural Pomposity, a plethora of cheap thought-free slogans of the uncontestable War is Helle variety, and a limitless capacity for blame-seeking and calling-for-yet-avoiding most urgent revolution!, the average Moor fan is as helpless as a newly aborted fetus before nature, physics, mechanics, a good stiff breeze, and Wotan's teasing whims.

The Moor scores invertedly and shortsightedly again with his mis-assertion that Merkans exceed the remainder of the world's populations in undiluted "dumb"-ness. The insult is a matter of perspective and does his own followers no small injustice. Question any street waif in Lesotho for the monickers of the major global aqueous bodies, or a brief on the particulars of the sub-atomica theory, or even a thorough run-down on the pragmatic goings-on within Lesotho's own governing body, and not only (as with the bulk of Left-leaning Merkan "college grads") will they be incapable of summoning up cogent answers, they will also not be able to fill the inevitable dead air with lofty smoke-screen belches about "corporations," "imperialism," "Haliburton," or Le Grande Cure-All for the knowledge-stressed--"relevancy." If all is content within that burdoned realm's tattered napkin-corner, democracy is a word cloaked in be-Greek-to-them, tin-pot dictatorships triumph, and Mr. Moor's ultimate secret goal is attained, that being: stupid people can then do no harm when denied the vote. The Moor's Übermenschen aristocracy, many solid micro-millimeter's below their worst national peers in upward-yearning knuckleheadedness, trump nearly every Sabu, Hassam, and Ting-Ling on that dreary planet by simply playing the know-it-all Politically Correct card! Once again, Merka is victorious by a hair's width via fantabulous displays of pure Bullscheiß--the House Specialty!

Ultimately, Mr. D'Moor and his de-humbled tag-alongs should sponsor a new Voting Rights act within the national parliamentary assemblage. Tests would be mandated for voting-age citizens determining their attitudes and opinions regarding major points-of-reference ringing the self-evidently correct agenda of The Moor and his own be-thralled horde of Saracens. Failure to score, um, correctly in this evaluation would be prima facie proof of debilitating hydrocephaly (or whatever--Lefties are nonpareil at fabricating labels and defining new categories of things as suits their political fad-of-the-hour--words equalling reality to most) much as failure to support Bolshevism was once proof of mental aberration in another defunct Dummy's Paradise. One more potentially wrongheaded vote would no longer be up for grabs between Senator Sluggo and Governor Bluto during the next national electoral farce; Sluggo would vanquish Satan (Bluto, this bout), rapture would sweep through the campus centers and coffee houses of Merka, and that nation would be awash in peace, prosperity, and multilingual signage, with a previous Bluto administration (and plenty of others) conveniently available to blame when none of the Golden Age spontaneously materialized. Merka would continue on its perpetually self-hobbled, self-absorbed journey through the fun-house of "da Urth's" history as it, and every other tribe and nation--despite assertions by the anthro-apologists--always has.

One may finish with this childe-like observation: If "The Moor" thinks his nation is moribund and its populace wholly "dumb" (his brilliant friends--MENSA supermodels and polymath cinema players--once again excepted, natürlich), then why does he fret and fume at all? Shouldn't he and his followers pay tribute to sinking-ship rationality and express their groaning displeasures with relocative geographical emphasis (wish and hope)? Cuba--a veritable Paradise for the frontal-lobe engorged--is ever in need of sugar-cane workers; the Sudan--a Garden of Eden of progressive thinking--could use assistance in eradicating "dumb" unbelievers; the League of Nations office in Geneva, it is rumored, is hiring a few more "maintenance staff." Or, if it's all as horrid as depicted, shouldn't Mr. the Moor and his comrades acquire firearms and man the battlements? Image V. I. Lenin publishing a tome titled "Stupid White Russians," collecting his cut of the profits, and heading home for ample lunch, mission accomplished, tyranny sort-of-overturned in his mind at least. Our guess is that since St. Michael's talent is in turning whine into sparklingly lucrative water that's sold--in a most "corporate" manner coincidentally--to baptize his own choir, he dares not abandon the golden-egg-laying-goose he daily protests he intends (some distant day) to cook and devour whole.

Lest I forget, the other zoomorphically miscegenated bovine-jackass that holds the rosier half of the snake-pit "in thrall"--the salt-in-wound to Mike's hot peppa--is of course that blustering Rush-to-Limbo fellow. We leave him where we find him, and choose not to apply corporal punishment to this deceased (and bloated) form of equine transport. Any adult merely steps around; he is a danger and impediment only so much in that he is an immovable blockage to self-righteous crybabies peddling kiddie-cars.

Countdown to Tricentennial--Posting 296, the long-anticipated return of Dave Dimp, the ebullient blogstarian

I missed me quite a bit!

It's really exciting to be #296 in the big countdown to 300 postings! Just by coincidence, 296 is the catalogue number of my favorite aromatherapy scent, and it's also my house number on Jerkwood Lane. It's like some psychic thing or something. Man, I just realized--it's also the last three digits in my National Wiretalker number if your switch the 9 and the 2!

Well, nothing new to report. Still watching my favorite optical wireless shows and still really into aromatherapy. Got my new calendar featuring cute pictures of puppies in coffee and tea-cups (or is it cuppies of toffee in pea-cups?), although some of them seem a bit big to be sitting in a cup and they look really uncomfortable. Regardless, it's up on my office wall at the Institute right above the shelf of Beanie Babies. The Pille sisters pick Beanie Babies up for me whenever they do a Peepergate trip to "da Urth." I've got the kraken, the baby blue deer tick, the mole rat, and the adorable "enchilada." We don't have enchiladas on Erde which is funny 'cause we have all the other animals they have on "da Urth" plus a few extras like dodos and passenger pigeons. I guess enchiladas are kind of like chinless chinchillas or something. They don't have any legs either.

[Editor Note: Just so you know, Dave strongly resembles a shallow weasel the Übermacher once knew in an earlier lifetime. That schmuck collected any and every thing to do with lighthouses but was still into aromatherapy. He was a marketing professional's dream date]

Ed-er from the Lederrer

Ed Pahjorndice--Editor of Professor Pille's Planetary Panopticon

Our three-hundredth posting on this Interknit site draws close and here on Erde we prepare to celebrate this virtualistic milestone with national festivities, speechifying, and one heck of a cookout at the Institute campgrounds up near Lake Pongo. On "da Urth," alas and alack, the moment shall arrive and pass with all the praise and notice that attends a pebble tumbling into a very deep well in a distant and desolate place. Oh well. We knew that this thing-called-a-blog, if surveyed, planned and constructed to the finest Erden specifications, ran a risk of running aground within the rarefied cultural aether such as our parallel dimensioned Echo World, "da Urth," offers. Oh well, yet again... and again, as our metaphors mix.

On one side of the Peepergate--the sunny side we might insist--all is as it should be. Though half of our efforts fall flat elsewhere, the rewards from this well-illuminated embarkation and surveillance point are more than sufficient: critical approval, public acclaim, an enthusiastic note from the Emperor and Empress, prizes, awards, a wink and nod from Wotan himself, and "free lunch" across most of Narragansett, Mohawk, and surrounding National Districts where our intrepid literary and trans-dimensional explorers are hailed as heroes! Many Institute regulars have become familiar profiles on the Optical Wireless--Dave Dimp even hosts his own Spielshow now, and the Pille sisters have hired an agent to deal with the persistent clamour for their presence. Our comments and observations are translated and reprinted in the national newspapers of places as faraway as Tic-Toc and Lower B'bottomland. What could "da Urth" offer that could possibly top that?

So, we shall strike the mirage-like wall of 300 postings and, with the same stoic persistence against insurmountable odds that the life-force itself often shows, simply "keep on trucking" in the hope that the Panopticon may catch some notice somewhere on this shadowed side of the garden gate. Meanwhile, after much debate, we've found ourselves experimenting with another thing-called-a-blog that caters more to popular "da Urther" tastes--it's our newest bunk-mate of bunkum, The Nohovian. Frankly, for this old editor, it casts its lines and limply rebounds pretty much like the now-tiresome "Onion" of "Urther" fame; it lacks the whimsy, Joycean/Carrollian word-play, and Pillogic that we'd hoped would make this creative effort rise above above the ordinary. Sadly, our "Urther" failure was preordained. The fault--to wax arcanely Shakespearean--was both with their stars and within ourselves. Our lousy marketing department probably didn't help either.

To conclude: at this point, time and effort will be dedicated to some buffing of the past product--a point of personal pride for us all here at the Institute and within the Institute's official organ, the Planetary Panopticon. We wish to leave this work-in-progress as a work of art of sorts, an atypical relic of sour "Urther" times. The Nohovian, on the other hand, once committed, should veer directly into the puerile and sophomoric, with gum-card depictions of politicians as demons, and Red or Blue State-ments pulled from out of the bowels of the outhouse. A bit of nudity smooshed into the mix and success is a given!

Patty Pille provides perspective on paradoxical Peepergate poop-heads

So depressed by the experience I don't even feel like dressing up

A few weeks back (and against Dad's explicit orders--boy am I grounded... and in the aviation sense, too--the Krakenator is locked in the hanger for two weeks!) I slipped through the Peepergate to see what was up on our echo world, "da Urth." The destination was an institution of higher learning out in the countryside not all that far from where--on our world--the Institute is located, way up in the nice north part of Narragansett. I figured it would be easy to blend in with students, my accent wouldn't be noticed (my Merkan was good but not that good), and any odd habits (by "Urther" standards) probably wouldn't be seen as all that odd. Students everywhere--even on distant Ishtar--tend to be pretty much the same (although I can't vouch for the students inside Ishtar, if there are any... and boy does that idea send a chill up my spine!).

I tagged along with Nivea Tangyeer's topological-geographic team (Topo-Geos we call them at the Institute, after the optical wireless animated mouse) that was going "Through the Looking-Gate" (as the techies refer to Peepergate travel to "Urth") to check out some oddball orgonic emissions far up a fairly large and familiar-looking river that's probably our Erlkönig--I forgot to look at a map before leaving home. They dropped me off at a school called Ham-shure near a quaint village named Ham-hurst which appeared to be an independent city-state rather than a part of Merka--they flew their own flag in front of their castle, a vile baby blue colored one decorated with a sniper's gun-site caught or carried in a soldier ant's serrated pincers. The symbolism--certainly martial and aggressive and reeking of global domination--was, fortunately, lost to me. Confusingly, it shared a flagpole with the stock whimsical Merkan starry pajamaflag. A colony perhaps? A defeated aggressor nation flaunting its former aspirations of conquest?

It was fairly early in the evening but dark as Helle. Beloved D'Anna wasn't up yet to light the evening, and the whole campus was more scruffy forest than dorm and classroom. It all seemed odd--this was hardly a Universität in the standard Erden mold, and as I strolled around looking for signs of life, listening to distant mechanical drumming (!) and primitive (and incredibly bad) scat-illogical shout-rhyming, it was coming across more like some nutty-arsed Autistic-Horrorist camp deep in the cedar forests of Puta Babylon. In the distance even was an awful yurt/dome thingie but made up of cheap metal tubing formed into triangles. Oh Creatrix! A Brushminster hemi-demi-sicle, and in the flesh! Leave it to the "Urthers" to actually build something purely theoretical we Erdens knew on sight would leak like tea strainer and be impossible to inhabit.

Finally, after stumbling around the lamest looking hodge-podge of run-down structures imaginable, I met up with a cluster of young-uns that must have been students although they lacked that bright eyed and bushy-tailed quality I naturally associate with their curious and eager brethren. More disturbingly, not a one of these kittens carried any books! A tall and sickly looking yet seemingly friendly one spoke to me.

(to be continued)

Institute Psy-Ops lobs nonsensical RPG (Rocket Propelled Goofiness) at Amazonians

Examining mighty Jehovah's hair and follicles for genetic evidence of "Creation"

By Design or By Chance? The Growing Controversy on the Origins of Life in the Universe (Paperback) by Denyse O'Leary

A Review by "Anthony Pille"

[ED: Actually a joint effort by the staff of the Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries Urth Project Psy-Ops Division (UPPOD)--published on Amazon. We here on Erde find the entire "Work-in-progress that has plenty of flaws, may ultimately not be wholly right, but at least helps explain dinosaur bones" vs. "Medieval notion of big bearded guy at drafting table" controversy to be as silly as a playground argument between 6-year-olds about the existence or non-existence of Santaria Claus. Sadly, it's all just more proof of Decline. No self-respecting academic on Erde will even publish on the subject until they've learned how to "bend spoons"]

Dennis O'Leary is known to most folks as a funny, sarcastic, and irreverent comedian but few seem to know much about his more serious side, along with his impressive array of academic credentials. That he is also a leading authority on the evolution vs. creationism controversy came as a total surprise to even this well-informed reader (I did already know about his PhD work at Stanford, and of the numerous awards he's received for his work in genetics).

Proceeding along at a rapid clip and carefully setting the trade-mark quips and bon mots aside, O'Leary lunges pell-mell straight into the hot fulminating core of this increasingly important pair or two of challenges to conventional notions of logic, common sense, and classic Western religio/scientific method. In a series of discourses over the course of this series of paragraphs, he first broadly outlines the history of the Creationist Creation that mandates the pro-active "contracting" of a higher intelligence, or "Intelligent Designer" to do the important set-up, and then he covers the evolution of the history of the creation of the origin of the theories of Charles Darwin--a man who may or may not have been ascended from an ape-like creature that he one day realized he superficially resembled (his Eureka Moment or possibly his father). Moving beyond this initial rendering, the author then enumerates the problems with the Theory of Continental Drift (one unresolved one being that if all the continents were once part of a single massive continent clumped on just one side of the planet--as is alleged--why didn't the Earth tip over sideways?) and other so-called "scientific" theories that run counter to native, two-bare-feet-solidly-on-the-ground, good sense.

Using famed industrial designer Raymond Loewy and Native American origin myths as suitable metaphors for a sort of sublime "Tinkertoy Universe," O'Leary succeeds in bridging an irreconcilable conceptual gap with a life-line that has so-far posed as an impassable barrier (and a rope for hanging oneself on!) to commentators on this challenging yet pressing topic--perhaps the single most important controversy facing the world today*. By interpolating the two seemingly contrasting traditions in a radical yet highly effective manner (using an almost Rabbinical dialectical style and rhetorical welding tongs) O'Leary then "makes the leap of faith," cuts the Gordian Knot, overturns presumption and applecart, and convincingly shows that, for starters (and beginners), Charles Darwin--his thoughts, his theories--may be viewed (metaphorically, if not spiritually) as an Earthly manifestation of the divine. Those who have worked closely with tenured professors in an academic setting will find this conclusion wholly plausible if not outright worthy of blind worship.

Resolving the two-edged dualistic dilemma at the finely sharpened point at either locus of this particularly linear stick, O'Leary notes (citing countless examples taken from scientific journals, trade magazines, and Jesuitical writings of the 12th and 13th Centuries) that since the beginning of the Christian Era (0 A.D.), the primary argument of Intelligent Design boosters is this: If we don't understand how something works, it must be irrefutable proof of the existence of God. (He tops off this observation by noting that Bertrand Russell frequently used this common sense "law" in the chapter on Godel's Theorem in the Principia Mathematica; and not being mechanically inclined he also had a superstitious fear of clocks) This, he then continues, is a natural step forward from Paleolithic (meaning "before the Creation") notions about the divine origins of species of various "natural" (or are they?) phenomenon/punishments like lightning, darkness, loud sudden noises and the ever-frightening fire. Here he presents the equally controversial and fairly new notion of Intelligent Redesign--essentially the Politics of the Deluge--and explains its all-important economics.

The difficulty for the sharp reader who retains a facsimile of an open mind on this confusing subject, wherever he or she or He may be hiding, is that the endless words and threats hurled--like hot chunks of brimstone--from below by advocates of Intelligent Design, coupled with those slower-appearing and more plodding bookish-isms scribed by Supporters of Evolution, are each so utterly convincing in their taut arguments and smack-in-the-head conclusions that open-mindedness is all but impossible to any but the foolhardy or those feverish with the Black Death. For the average seeker-of-answers, it see-saws back and forth thusly: one month--usually just before the Christmas Holiday shopping season--a controversial pamphlet (or book, if enough loose words are available in mid-winter) will be intelligently designed-and-published that effectively proves the presence of God's Hand in Creation beyond all reasonable or even unreasonable doubt; the next month--often just seconds before the first Fourth of July firecrackers are lit--some immense tome will groaningly and spontaneously self-manifest itself atop the uncomprehending public--one that conclusively settles the tiniest niggling smidgen of doubt about the Theory of Evolution (anyone who worked their way through Steven Jay Gould's ironclad 3000 page proof-of-pudding will agree here and we hope he will follow this last word on the subject with an equally convincing sequel). With so much rock-hard and incontestable evidence for two polar-opposite realities what can any sensible or patriotic person do?

BUY THIS BOOK! O'Leary offers a clear-cut way out of this dark and confusing briar patch. Read it, believe it, stop thinking, and relax.

*The supreme importance of resolution here is missed by many. These days drugged-out, over-medicated students with ADD and dyslexia all across America are being taught (and are almost immediately forgetting) Darwin's theories to the exclusion of the opportunity to forget and ignore any other possibilities about the nature of their prized pets. Official acceptance of the idea of "Intelligent Design" means that forgotten curriculums will need to be reordered and unread textbooks rewritten for the near-illiterate whose briefly flickering attentions are almost always elsewhere--it will be a major and costly restructing of our nation's progressively worsening educational system!

Abu Ubu History--Part the Second

Any excuse to get someone stoned

Abu Ubu is (er, well, was) renowned for a system of justice that interwove so finely with its endless expressions of unalloyed rage against everything imaginable that the two pretty much ended up being the same thing. At its best, the justice system was remarkable for its always fatal punishments dealt out to people who refused to riot, murder, commit arson, and otherwise engage in mindless mayhem. Attempts at a jury system proved futile: any jury that failed to convict (and deal out the harshest "justice") was hung, or worse; judges often beat defendants to death with their own mallets before a trial even commenced; lawyers gunned each other's witnesses down and cited arcane religious law to justify their actions. It was all thoroughly incredible.

Sebastian T. Consindine, IV, Esq. interlopes upon the effulgent flow that be we with nit-picking minutae

We received the following shocking missive mere moments ago, Director Zliplitt responds first and then Patty Pille

As a former resident of Cans-ass, I would like to point out that M. Zliplitt clearly arrived via peepergate in Cans-ass Seaty, Misery, and not Cans-ass Seaty within Cans-ass proper. Please clarify for your readers that any persecution suffered was in fact at the hands of Miserians, not the good law-imposing people of the once free state of Cans-ass. Gawd bless Merka.Now proudly a resident of Minnemahoota,Sebastian T. Consindine, IV, Esq.

Dearest proudly now a resident of Your-Tiny-Breast,

Earlier, I debouched from the Institute's Peepergate portal rejoicing; happy beyond any expression to be here at home en-wrapped by Civilization, Sanity, and Sanitation. What I endured at the nethermost end of our trans-dimensional slippery slide to chaos defies, equally, any possible printable description or elaboration in a family directed publication such as this. Whether I was forced to wallow in a septic tank called Cans-ass, or in an unclarified latrine dubbed Misery is a Jesuitical hair-splittage not worth conjuring with; I am only joy-filled that my technically perfect protective Peepernaut gear prevented me from becoming as besmirched physically as I was aesthetically and emotionally.

Yours most earnestly,

Anatole Zliplitt

Dear "Sebby,"

Missed you at the post-game party, I was hoping we could "get together" just like olde tymes but with a kid on the way and a wife in the oven I guess you have more important things on your mind, doncha? Too bad, I wore that flame red thong that drives you crazy!

kisses,

Pattycake

Muddled East explained as best I can or care to

Anatole Zliplitt, Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries Director of Public Assuagement

[Expressing myself in such a manner as to maintain the infantile "Urther" fictions of virtual administrative realities:] Ahem, within my E-office one may find an imposingly scrotal E-sack of E-mails from sundry trans-dimensional E-readers (whose reality I do in fact doubt) asking for, shall we say, E-laboration on or about or for the recently mentioned region we here on Erde know as the Muddled East. Confusion erupted (as acne or a boil upon a greasy nasum may) undoubtedly because on that swine-hauled sewage sledge we call "da Urth"--the twi-lit zone from which I, and the Pille sisters have just this day returned (drenched in dimwettery I may add)--there is a region that figures rather prominently in "Urther" lives at the moment called, near-coincidentally, the "Middle East." The two places--muddled or middled--in fact have little in common beyond a shared gravitational constant of 9.8 meters/second squared! (and even that may be contested!) On Erde, the Muddled-East is an imprecise geo-political zone roughly congruent with what souls may dub the miscellany drawer: that shadowed and carpented, ink-stained deep where spheres of tinfoil, match-depleted matchbooks, oddly lengthed bandings of rubber, and nations (petite ones at that!) that do not figure into the predominant current of Erden history, gather to fume and stew and harangue and play out their pathetically confined trajectories.

Aside from Abu Ubu, now crushed to peanut size and sadly demised as my lone crocodilian tear will indicate (an implant, I confess), other Erden Muddled-Eastern kumquats include Salty Onion (manhandled in an earlier posting), Lesser Lower B'bottomlande, the Peephole's Republic of Peephole, Tetse Lumbago, The Celestial Quimby of Nur, Ukandukan, Holidaze Hump-Islands (where are located the well-known and immense stone Hump-Island "heads" and "urinals"--a popular vacation spot for the kinked-up and flatulent), and, of course Tincanistan--source of all our trash. There are others, but most are so midget in one dimension or another they tend to be abandoned or ignored by Erden topo-geographers. Summoned together into a viscous and often vicious mass (a horrific thing to contemplate!) they comprise barely 2% of our thoughts and nearly 1% of our best wishes, yet fully 23% of our wetlands.

Far too many do-good-ing Erdens frequently test their mettle by sailing, flying, cart-wheeling, or tunneling to these discombobulated territories to, well, do good; but they are usually handed back their noggins and other bits of useful anatomy on colorfully decorated native-crafted platters as prix maximus for their misguided huffings and puffings. Muddled-Easterners generally un-relinquish brain-zones that reached the peak of their functionality during the Paleozoic--it's oft-times not thought per se, but reaction, unmitigated, to stimuli--usually antagonistic or hedonistic--that drives their itty bitty out-of-round wheels. For this reason, unlike busybody "Urthers" who are hell-bent to fiddle with their "Middle," we prefer not to meddle with our Muddle. I'll add and conclude that the verisimilitude of the everyday "Urther" thought-and-mind-less-ness to the cogitative bocal stylings of this woe-begotten Erden region is a potent impeller for the heebie-jeebies here at the Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries. The vigilant monitor assigned to our Peepergate egress incorporates an impressive shillelagh into her kit and not for no reason.

Abu Ubu History--Part the First

Festive annual political event soon became known as the Assasselection

As Abu Ubans "progressed" from being motivated by fear of pain to being controlled by terror of helle-fire, Abu Ubu's politics gained in relative sophistication. Above we see the results of the first fully democratic election within Abu Ubu where each citizen, obviously, wields his or her own personal veto--often in the form of a revolver or horseless carriage bomb. The new Prime Minister (the Right Honorable Athol Pugnacious Lillybottom R.I.P.) expresses surprise at the sudden turnaround of the earlier national vote count (his opponent had only moments before conceded before he was gunned down); his error at interpretation of the pre-election polls consisted of failing to take into account the majority opinion on a hot topic held by 2% of the electorate that's holding 90% of the explosives (which, de facto makes them, via complex statistical calculation, as great a percentage of the electorate as they care to be using the Where does a Gorilla sleep? democratic rule). The voter/assassin--rather than being terrified by promise of pain and helle-fire--is justifiably confident that his carefully considered veto earned him a place at the side of the Abu Uban supreme deity Alexcthlamizidek--Destroyer of Souls who is the God-of-choice of 32% of the citizenry yet 70% scarier than the Supreme Being that holds the remaining 68% minority in thrall (Mr. Mxyzptlk-Eater of Eternities) In an earlier and less evolved era the threat of bodily harm for this righteous judgement may have been enough to dissuade a citizen from exercising demon-creature-given Abu Ubu voting rights. Instead, faith triumphs and a great nation endures at least till it implodes!

Erde mourns loss of our "angriest little nation," Abu Ubu

Never a moment's peace in over 300 years

From Panopticon commentator Edward Armouralle

Only days ago, an entertaining chapter in the history of our generally peaceful world came to a tragic close when the entire nation of Abu Ubu--enraged, slandered, and vilified as never before by an optical wireless documentary that explored the history of rage within Abu Ubu--simply, and under titanic anger-fueled pressure, imploded, taking its citizens, its blast-furnace culture, its scarred and bullet-riddled infrastructure along with it into an ever-collapsing abyss of nihilism. All that remains is an immense hole...and a question: why did this take so long to happen?

Over the next few weeks we'll examine that question and review the history of Abu Ubu, that hyper-excitable country where even the simplest social event--a Mother's Day celebration, a birthday party, a pet-store opening--would invariably turn into chaos and mayhem.

Intrepid Peepernauts visit Cans-ass Seaty middle-school and live to relate the tale!

A poor daguerreotype of the Merkan "educational facility" as the inter-dimensional travelers/recordists--Director Zliplitt and the stalwart Pille sisters--were dodging projectiles and avoiding buried explosives and were scarcely capable of camera artfulness

The combined noble non-exertions of the Merkan government, the cloud-dwelling "Blue" state theorists (who craftily replace challenging real world solutions with recommendations of cash-plaster applications and self-ennobling witch-huntings), and the highly aggressive Studenten (with their Laizzes-Fair crackered-head parentals in non-tow) have resulted in the near total annihilation of this structure, or nearly any other structurings of merit. Demolition experts feel they now have the correct "formula" to reduce any antiquated (i.e. unprofitable) architecture to dust, opening up land for serious investment. Some rare thinkers (now threatened with extinction) question any assumption of naturally occurring emergent order from chaos; Emperor's New Invisible Hand guarantees Studenten will be totally lost in shuffling, buffaloing, and waffling, but few care as return on dollar invested per unit is virtually nil. Better a new Wallet-Mart where non-white tykes can work for slave-wages and demonstrate measurable productivity for a change. Education is up 6% this quarter--time to invest in Merka's future!

[The ever-proactive Pille Sisters--sensing the hot breath of the four winds of neglect--seriously considered packing the entire mass of school-youngsters up and sending them through the Peepergate but mere logistics, ethical considerations, and other pragmatics constrained them. All Erde is astir with notions of mass forced childe removals from that helle-ish world--seldom has such an issue engaged Erdens--who treat children as treasure--so throughly! The Emperor and Empress remain quiet, tense, and pensive as new data streams in from the Institute]

Abu Ubu implodes!

NEWS FLASH--National Optical Wireless Service

The microscopically Muddled-Eastern nation of Abu Ubu has reportedly swallowed itself up in a gravitationally near-infinite massive ball of mindless rage. "All that's left is a big hole... and a fez--just hanging there, uncertain, like a sartorial metaphor for the itty bitty bit of self-doubt the Abu Ubans ever showed," reports one eye-witness. More later.

Infiltrating a Merkan military installation book-shop

Posted by Anatole Zliplitt, Director of Public Assuagement, Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries

Many adventures ensued following our deposition upon the "Royales" pageantry grounds (the regal home team won 5 to 3!) and these will be detailed in later postings. Notable among the following days' explorations was our cunning infiltration of a High Sekrit Merkan military base (flashing our Narragansett National District horseless carriage licenses at the gateway readily did the "trick"--they assumed we hailed from an "Urth" place known as Road Ireland!) where we immediately sought out a book shop in order to gauge the intellectual warp and woof of this fully martial establishment. To our surprise and delight the various critical publications rampant within "Blue" state bookeries were on display and available for sale (Edward Said's Orientalism actually in a top and frontward place, I nearly tripped up upon it!) and a full complement of alternate cloth-and-paper bound views and opinions, along with deadpan and self-critical histories, could be found! All in all the general intellectual heft of the joint was greater than we had discerned in most Merkan centers of learning; missing only were mere rabid opinion and catalogues of slander i.e the textbooks of many Studenten. It would seem that in this militaristic realm all opinions are honored and examined provided they have some basis in a simple conjoining of fact and logic--the denizens hereabouts seek truth and real-world solutions, not rancid lubricant for bad ideas.

The Soldaten we encountered and often chatted with underscored this initial impression--most, if not all, possessed certificates of higher learning (many of an advanced nature), and eloquence (or quiet humility) was the rule. This atop records of success and demonstrated courage under duress. We encountered no parroting of notions, no sloganeering, and no brain-cleansed dogma; ideas were bandied about freely, welcomed even. What a strange contrast to our brief visit (thus far not posted as we have yet to recover from the ordeal!) to a "Blue" state Universität some weeks back where we were harangued endlessly by children (they at least seemed so in manner if not in average height) and rudely corrected for the merest perceived slip of allowed language! I believe Patty Pille--who decked a sarcastic "Phenminmist" (?) professor--is planning a post on this "vacation in Helle" once her descriptions settle down into printable language.

Live from the grape state of Misery right next to Unionist Cans-ass

Posted by Anatole Zliplitt, Director of Public Assuagement, Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries

Greetings to readers of the Panopticon! My trip through the Institute's transdimensional conveyance--that device which we know secretly as the "Peepergate"--was uneventful although outwardly much like a cannonball ride through a psychedelic whirlygig in its immediate details. Myself and my two tumbling charges, the Pille sisters, landed fannies first upon the oddly artificial grass of some "Urther" nobleman's sport playing field, seemingly while a pageant was in progress! A crudely stitched white sphere (orb minus scepter?) whizzed by my Peepergate protective helmet as I righted, and we all three scurried off the ominously flat land of the outdoor arena while boisterous observers (most likely lesser nobles and other fans of the Royalty) mocked and jeered. Apparently our retreat, or escape, or rout even, lacked enough haste for the natives; the monarch himself of this tiny and noisy kingdom, a diminutive man with an immense head that incorporated his crown, angrily chased us, accompanied by Royalists from Cans-ass Seaty wielding finely crafted clubs!

"God" AKA "Allah" or "Jehovah" found skulking in "Heaven"

Wotan threatening to get out garden hose or bug bomb to take care of the matter

Jesus drove the getaway car and Mohammed rode shotgun as denounced deity makes his or her or (more disturbingly) its big escape after Imperial agents with arrest warrants bust down a motel room door in the Lumpenpoof Falls suburbs. This mere days after international fanatical kook-a-munga, Baphomet Q'ung, escapes to the aft side of D'Anna, our lovely moon. Annoying religionists and their gods are fleeing Erde like rats from stinking sheep, and Wotan--pressed by the press--ain't saying why. Sounds like the long-anticipated Operation Dustbuster is finally happening; nobody's seen Thor or a Valkyrie for days and strange noises from above are keeping the citizenry wide wake at night.