The Pfennig-Dreadful!

As literature at least the equal of "Urth's" Harry Potter micro-epics or The Devil Wears Prada

The Empire (scarcely to mention our world of Erde as a whole) is hardly flushed free of Low-Brau cultural product--survey above the tawdry Pfennig-Dreadful published unashamedly by a division of our Institute's very own printing house. Natch, these matters are entirely relative--on our world the widely regaled pen-smith Thornwell Twobears C.M. may be lauded as a teller of sensationalist tales to be read beach-side or in the water closet, lights doused, but compared to the loftiest standards of modernistical "Urth" literature-producers he is a titanic Cervantes of Crapola.*

In regards to Twobears' story headlining this specific number of the Wide Awake Library: technically the Empire has not witnessed strife with the Aztekians for near 500 years now--they are a deplorable yet generally sanguine peoples these days as their once unquenchable thirst for sacrificial Blut had been maneuvered (by our psyops folk, natch) into hyper-psychotic enthusiasm for an uncivilized competitive ball sport that, not so curiously, resembles in most general details your "rugby," "soccer," or iMerikan "football." It was labor enough to curtail their murderous designs on others; they are now free to massacre themselves. Still, adventure yarns and especially secret agent and scientifical-romance thrillers staged in the savage and heathenistic lands of Aztekia (as well as those of neighboring Inka-Dinkadoo) are popular among those who (like myself I will freely admit) appreciate the infrequent un-freighted slap-dash read.

Note: Rollo Pond--the hero of the bulk of Thornwell Twobears' stories--is a universally-known and beloved fictional character here on Erde, roughly equivalent to your Batman, Sherlock Holmes or Mr. Bubble.

Note: The kraken issue on our world has been elaborated upon before, as has the significance of the designation C.M. (for Citizen Monkey). No need to retrace these steps again but the ADD-curious and marijuana-dimmed are welcome to look any of it up via Pille-a-pedia if you can access the Imperial Interknit (and you can't).

*Others whose "cheesy" comestibles are perennially on the Portville Trumpeter Doubloon bestseller list are the historical-romance writer Irkadia Lyntmop (a good friend of Mrs. Pille's) and E. Warden Wharton, who scribes heady culinary private-eye/ear/nose/throat novels.

New Pilleco ® product aimed at guilt-drenched "Urth" bumpkinry

This "gag" has almost certainly been executed previously and elsewhere but certainly not as stylishly! We scrupulously avoided the obvious triteness of inserting a cartoon sperm (or otherwise) into the graphics.

Institute provides Clinton campaign with exciting New Image

The future "First Laddie" himself contacted this office and asked for campaign brainstorms and this was the result. Meditate upon its multivariated symbolisms as you will, but our chief intent is to spook the Red-Staters into staying at home on election day... well at least perhaps the menfolk, confronted with a finny vagina dentata will cower in their barns and bunkers rather than do their democratic duties on the court-house and town-hall lawns of Middlin' A-Merka!

Alarmists here worry this strategy could easily backfire and keep her male supporters at bay, but we have assured critics that Blue-State men usually already lack anything of note to nip off.

Would a return of the Great Whitehouse Shark effectively constitute an electoral Jaws II?

Mitt Romney versus Hillary Clinton

Mitt Romney, under pressure, shows his true color (a proper Mormonical dress black), steals his wife's "respectable Republican cloth" pro-life preserver, and--ironically--hurls himself directly into Hillary Clinton's gaping maw unaware that he was set up to be pet food all along. If you watch carefully you'll see Hillary actually smile a touch before she swallows--a rare treat for us and for her.

Aye laddie, wha' a tann'd and han'some "corpse" he'll be a-makin'!



Mitt Romney dives into the annals (and entrails) of history

On a further note: the reign of Queen Hillary the First (americanus glorianus) should prove far more entertaining than that of your currently enthroned Mad King George II who, at the rate he is going to Helle, may well turn into a pathetic object of pity by the time the convention circuses roll into the national Our Town next summer.

A celebration of the beauty and majesty of second-rate celestial workmanship!

With all the silly Creationite vs. Darwiniac hubbub hubbubbling over the otherwise, ahem, dignified scientifical and religioverbositous place-mats, doilies and antimacassars of "da Urth," we thought readers (such as they are) might be somewhat mildly barely almost interested in a similar tempest-in-a-bedpan that is even now creating eddies of mild concern on our own blessed and peace-drenched world of Erde.

Briefly--and as any Imperial schoolchilde knows--the "World" was cobbled together by a supra-real entity called the Creatrix, this after she signed a lucrative creation contract with sentient-kind. The contract was of a standard retro-bootstrap variety probably unfamiliar to "Urth" legal vampires and ghouls. However, the Creatrix (who had provided us with excellent references from Jove, Pele, and even Shiva!) was sued in the largest class action suit in our legal history (Humanity v. Creatrix). Generally we felt she'd made rather a botch of the job and some here even accused her of using substandard materials and inexperienced labor. It was a lot of small things: substandard spider webs that weren't "code," too many birds crash-landing or different species using the same chintzy off-the-shelf call, oysters not sticking to rocks as well as they should--that sort of annoying schtoff. The problems quickly added up and after a while we worried about having invested everything in a real "lemon" of a reality!

Anyway, some nob over in our sister city of Pongo here in the Narragansett National District felt that a museum should be thrown up and stuffed solid with dopey displays and ditzy dioramas that would teach both children and farm-hands alike about the miraculously second-rate design and construction of our particular nook of the Multiverse. Natch, it's called the Museum of Unintelligent Design.

The Creatrix, court order in hand and Hounds of Legal Helle at her ankles, is currently flitting about setting everything right, or so she claims. We are calling this phase of her involvement in our very existence Intelligent Redesign. We may be being prematurely hopeful, if that's even a sentence.