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.