It is with some sadness that I announce the demise of the Justified
Agents Of Mummu forum. Known as the “Funny Farm” to friends, and
“DoucheBag Central” to it’s enemies the Justified Agents Of Mummu
Forum curled up and died earlier this week.
For some time friends had noticed the forum becoming listless, and
depressed . . . sometimes not a single user would post for days, or
even weeks at a time. Sometimes the forum would post to itself,
something it had learned to do in its early days when it was young
and lonely. The creation of fake users was a cry out for help and
attention, but was ignored by almost all, including your faithful
Baron, who should have seen the warning signs for what they were:
warning signs.
The last time your faithful Baron logged onto the forum there had
been one new user added to the membership list, which cheered him
somewhat until he saw the forum chatting with the user and then
chatting back AS the user . . . he knew then that it was only a
matter of time.
I would like to take this opportunity to read the Forum’s favourite
poem from the television series “The Simpsons”:
“Don’t cry for me -
- I’m already dead.”
It certainly brings a tear to a glass eye, don’t it folks?
The Forum was just over a year old.
Anyone who would like to share a story about the Forum may do so in
the Comments section below.
Hail Eris.
Weekend Lecture On Kabbalah
Ramses Colossus, of the Hermes Trismegistus Cabal of the Illuminati, invited me over the weekend to a seminar for the Kabbalah Center, the group Madonna has famously championed up until fairly recently. I don’t have much to report, really . . . the temperature in the building was probably three degrees below five hundred, which I found odd; the exorbitant fees the group demands seems to indicate that their pockets are deep enough for central air, or at the very very least, a cheap window air-conditioner . . . a few minutes into the speeches I was finding it difficult to remain stationary, as there was a inch-thick slick of sweat between the fold-up chair and my ass cheeks.
When a gentleman to my right asked the speaker whether it was preferable to remain ‘chaste’ throughout life (which he helpfully explained to the crowd meant ‘to remain a virgin’) Ramses decided it was time that we retire to the back of the building to enlighten ourselves. It was, of course, twenty-three degrees cooler outside than it was inside, but then again outside I wasn’t pressed between fat smelly plants pretending to be curious potential customers. Ramses’ enlightenment recipe? One part ‘13′, one part crysophrasya, one part embalming fluid: do NOT attempt to work heavy machinery, or compose heavy poetry under any circumstances!
While we were outside enlightening, and giggling about the virgin (wondering if he was a plant too, or just an poor unfortunate bastard who had little to no concept of group social interactions) we were interupted by a homeless person, or what appeared to be a homeless person, enquiring into what form of illumination was being practiced inside the building . . . I responded: “Dianetics”, while Ramses (always on his toes) answered “Tea-Leaf Reading, from the Modern Male Witch Phallic Perspective”. The possibly homeless person nodded sagely, then asked if the type of illumination we were receiving was on the agenda, Ramses answered “No,” and included him in the circle. I chatted with him briefly about the Sacred Chao, and explained the Pental and the Pomal therein, which he compared with his own concepts of the “tonal” and the “nagual”, concepts not unfamiliar to the Baron. As the “maybe yes / maybe no” homeless person separated from the two of us to make his way into the oven known as the Kaballah Center, Ramses asked if I knew who that was. I admitted that I did not.
“Well, I may be right or I may be wrong, but someone can sacrifice my left nut to Chorozon if that wasn’t Mr. Carlos Castaneda.” he laughed.
“I thought he was dead . . .” I responded.
“So did he,” Ramses answered cryptically.
A shiver ran down my spine, maybe from the strangeness of the incident, or possibly from the combination of the crysophrasya and the embalming fluid – who can say?
Carlos -if you are out there- did it turn out in the lecture that it WAS preferable to remain ‘chaste’? I’m dying to know.
When a gentleman to my right asked the speaker whether it was preferable to remain ‘chaste’ throughout life (which he helpfully explained to the crowd meant ‘to remain a virgin’) Ramses decided it was time that we retire to the back of the building to enlighten ourselves. It was, of course, twenty-three degrees cooler outside than it was inside, but then again outside I wasn’t pressed between fat smelly plants pretending to be curious potential customers. Ramses’ enlightenment recipe? One part ‘13′, one part crysophrasya, one part embalming fluid: do NOT attempt to work heavy machinery, or compose heavy poetry under any circumstances!
While we were outside enlightening, and giggling about the virgin (wondering if he was a plant too, or just an poor unfortunate bastard who had little to no concept of group social interactions) we were interupted by a homeless person, or what appeared to be a homeless person, enquiring into what form of illumination was being practiced inside the building . . . I responded: “Dianetics”, while Ramses (always on his toes) answered “Tea-Leaf Reading, from the Modern Male Witch Phallic Perspective”. The possibly homeless person nodded sagely, then asked if the type of illumination we were receiving was on the agenda, Ramses answered “No,” and included him in the circle. I chatted with him briefly about the Sacred Chao, and explained the Pental and the Pomal therein, which he compared with his own concepts of the “tonal” and the “nagual”, concepts not unfamiliar to the Baron. As the “maybe yes / maybe no” homeless person separated from the two of us to make his way into the oven known as the Kaballah Center, Ramses asked if I knew who that was. I admitted that I did not.
“Well, I may be right or I may be wrong, but someone can sacrifice my left nut to Chorozon if that wasn’t Mr. Carlos Castaneda.” he laughed.
“I thought he was dead . . .” I responded.
“So did he,” Ramses answered cryptically.
A shiver ran down my spine, maybe from the strangeness of the incident, or possibly from the combination of the crysophrasya and the embalming fluid – who can say?
Carlos -if you are out there- did it turn out in the lecture that it WAS preferable to remain ‘chaste’? I’m dying to know.
Official Illuminati Correspondence
FROM: Ramses Colossus,
Quinti-Primi Illuminati, Hermes Trismegistus Cabal
TO: Baron von Hoopla, KSC
Esoteric Order Of Eris, Kaufman Kabal
Dear BVH,
In response to your querie, may I just say that you grant us altogether too much credit. We haven’t had a single thing to do with the direction of world affairs since before WWI . . . Surely you realize who now runs North America, I’ve guessed as much from reading your log: Oprah Winfrey. She has been running everything since she took over from Phil Donahue when he achieved transendental illumination and became the Alchemical Hermaphrodite, his vocation was perfect for the invocation . . . Hermes the messenger, mixed with Aphrodite the goddess of femininity.
And, regarding Oprah’s qualifications for leadership, need I say more than:
O=800 P=80 R=100 A=1 H=5 =986 9+8+6=23 = 5
Spooky, no?
Anyhoo, World politics have become so tedious after time; we now prefer to amuse ourselves in smaller, more humorous ways, such as:
-We have coded the 64 aspects of the human psyche into the Mr. Men children’s books series. As children read through the series they will intuitively learn to realize that the human psyche is not a continuous stream of consciousness, but instead vastly different facets of a wider hallway of reality. These 64 aspects coincide, of course, with the more broad and esoteric aspects of Leary’s 8-Circuit model, the 64 hexagrams of the I-Ching, and naturally the 64 squares of the chess board.
-Hiding the 5 Elements of Nature in the television series the Facts of Life: Fire being represented by fiery Joe Polniaczek,the creative and wiley leader; Water represented by Blair Warner, the opposite of Joe, the Venus love goddess type; Air being represented by loudmouth Tootie Ramsey, the gossip; Earth being represented, naturally by Natalie Green, the pragmatic, down to earth smartass. The Fifth Quint-Essence is represented by Mrs. Edna Garrett who brings all the 4 qualities of the girls into logical union. She is the final outcome.
-Another project -which has been transpiring over the past three decades- has been the publishing of books completely blank. It began slowly at first, with blank books on accounting and quilting, but in the last two decades we have moved on to works of literature; James Joyce’s Ulysses has been printed blank since 1995, and Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow has been printed blank since 1982 – nobody has noticed yet. We had several plans set up for when books were returned angrily by the public demanding explanation, but up until the present time has never become an issue. Other blank books are The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood; Beautiful Losers, by Leonard Cohen; The Golden Bough, by Sir James George Frazer and Star: A Novel, by Pamela Anderson.
Another minor ongoing project (strictly my own) has been the development of the Simpson sisters, Jessica and Ashlee. It’s been an amusing ride, since in the beginning Jessica was intended as a straight-out clone of the formerly wildly popular Britney Spears, but has since eclipsed Brit, and is now a fully functional Illuminati puppet. That’s not the interesting part, though, since most celebrities are Illuminati puppets . . . the truly fantastic part is that in the last few months I have been slowly turning the two sisters into one person. If they seem confused by the questions about their plastic surgery in the media recently, there is a perfectly good explanation: THEY DON’T KNOW ABOUT IT! Stay tuned, it’s only going to get better . . . wait until they release the same single on the same day!
Anyway, I’ve blabbed on to you enough . . . tell me, do you still have that wonderful Mayor Mel you set up as leader in Hogtown? I can’t believe people actually bought him as a serious candidate, let alone actual winner – that almost beats old “W” down here . . . Keep Laughing!
-Ramses
Quinti-Primi Illuminati, Hermes Trismegistus Cabal
TO: Baron von Hoopla, KSC
Esoteric Order Of Eris, Kaufman Kabal
Dear BVH,
In response to your querie, may I just say that you grant us altogether too much credit. We haven’t had a single thing to do with the direction of world affairs since before WWI . . . Surely you realize who now runs North America, I’ve guessed as much from reading your log: Oprah Winfrey. She has been running everything since she took over from Phil Donahue when he achieved transendental illumination and became the Alchemical Hermaphrodite, his vocation was perfect for the invocation . . . Hermes the messenger, mixed with Aphrodite the goddess of femininity.
And, regarding Oprah’s qualifications for leadership, need I say more than:
O=800 P=80 R=100 A=1 H=5 =986 9+8+6=23 = 5
Spooky, no?
Anyhoo, World politics have become so tedious after time; we now prefer to amuse ourselves in smaller, more humorous ways, such as:
-We have coded the 64 aspects of the human psyche into the Mr. Men children’s books series. As children read through the series they will intuitively learn to realize that the human psyche is not a continuous stream of consciousness, but instead vastly different facets of a wider hallway of reality. These 64 aspects coincide, of course, with the more broad and esoteric aspects of Leary’s 8-Circuit model, the 64 hexagrams of the I-Ching, and naturally the 64 squares of the chess board.
-Hiding the 5 Elements of Nature in the television series the Facts of Life: Fire being represented by fiery Joe Polniaczek,the creative and wiley leader; Water represented by Blair Warner, the opposite of Joe, the Venus love goddess type; Air being represented by loudmouth Tootie Ramsey, the gossip; Earth being represented, naturally by Natalie Green, the pragmatic, down to earth smartass. The Fifth Quint-Essence is represented by Mrs. Edna Garrett who brings all the 4 qualities of the girls into logical union. She is the final outcome.
-Another project -which has been transpiring over the past three decades- has been the publishing of books completely blank. It began slowly at first, with blank books on accounting and quilting, but in the last two decades we have moved on to works of literature; James Joyce’s Ulysses has been printed blank since 1995, and Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow has been printed blank since 1982 – nobody has noticed yet. We had several plans set up for when books were returned angrily by the public demanding explanation, but up until the present time has never become an issue. Other blank books are The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood; Beautiful Losers, by Leonard Cohen; The Golden Bough, by Sir James George Frazer and Star: A Novel, by Pamela Anderson.
Another minor ongoing project (strictly my own) has been the development of the Simpson sisters, Jessica and Ashlee. It’s been an amusing ride, since in the beginning Jessica was intended as a straight-out clone of the formerly wildly popular Britney Spears, but has since eclipsed Brit, and is now a fully functional Illuminati puppet. That’s not the interesting part, though, since most celebrities are Illuminati puppets . . . the truly fantastic part is that in the last few months I have been slowly turning the two sisters into one person. If they seem confused by the questions about their plastic surgery in the media recently, there is a perfectly good explanation: THEY DON’T KNOW ABOUT IT! Stay tuned, it’s only going to get better . . . wait until they release the same single on the same day!
Anyway, I’ve blabbed on to you enough . . . tell me, do you still have that wonderful Mayor Mel you set up as leader in Hogtown? I can’t believe people actually bought him as a serious candidate, let alone actual winner – that almost beats old “W” down here . . . Keep Laughing!
-Ramses
It Took This Long?
Man Sues Employer For Hours Worked Sleeping
(Toronto Moon)
Updated: 2006-04-12 09:36
In a case being called the first of it’s kind by legal experts, a design firm employee, has sued his employer for time spent dreaming about work. Ruben Valletta, 33, who works as a graphic designer has sued Toronto-based Raw Silk Design, for the hours he has worked in his dreams—a case of work-life balance gone awry, he claims.
Filing a suit with the Ontario Court of Justice, Valletta and his representation are asking to be awarded the same hourly wage he receives in his actual job.
“I work all day for these people, then come home and dream about the job all night, why shouldn’t I be paid for those (hours) too?” Valletta told the Toronto Moon.
Attorney Apollo Devinia claims the suit has no grounds: “Mr. Valletta will first of all need to prove he dreams about his work, and if that could be proven he would need a record of exactly how many hours he works every night. It is my understanding that dreams are usually quite short in duration.”
This is the first time an employee has attempted to receive compensation for time spent working in a dream state
Raw Silk Design declined to comment on the suit.
The Mountain
I now understand the parable told in the Far East which states: first the mountain is a mountain, then the mountain is not a mountain, then it is again.
The parable had always confused me; I could understand the mountain not being a mountain anymore, but why would it then become a mountain again?
There is no sense in explaining how or why I now understand this, except to say that I believe I do.
I realize now that this parable has to be understood on your own and cannot be explained for you, so I can’t help anyone else much, except to state it in a different way which might add a clue:
first the mountain is a mountain, then the mountain is not a mountain, then it is a mountain again, then the mountain is not a mountain again, then it is, then it isn’t once again, but soon is a mountain again, et cetera and et cetera and et cetera . . .
What E Didn’t Understand About "V"
Roger Ebert’s review for “V for Vendetta” was a mostly glowing one (much better than the pan he gave Batman in 1989, which I still haven’t fully forgiven him for) and while he didn’t make the standard mistake most reviewers have been making regarding Evey’s “education”, in the last line of his review he does miss one large point of V’s message.
Close to the end of his review, Ebert states: “The movie ends with a violent act that left me, as a lover of London, intensely unhappy; surely V’s enemy is human, not architectural.”
Let us put aside for a moment that V is simply following through with what Guy Fawkes originally attempted in 1605, that is part of the answer, but the less important part.
Ebert is correct, of course, V’s enemy ARE human, but humans who use symbolism as a means of controlling the population. His genius is to use these same symbols in reverse.
The government buildings hold a form of magic in them because people believe they do, the same way our money holds magic because we believe it does. The government buildings are treated differently than other buildings because, apparently, ‘important’ matters are dealt with there. The government buildings are also symbolic of government itself.
The government buildings of London were attacked for much the same reason the Pentagon was attacked on 9/11, namely that they both represent the government as a whole. To destroy the government buildings is to allow the people to believe that the government is not magical, is not lead by the hand of God, is not impenetrable. Poke holes in someone’s symbols and you poke holes in their magic.
The No-Prize
Anyone who read Marvel comics in the 1970s and 1980s is familiar with the concept of the No-Prize. In a nutshell the No-Prize was a fictitious award handed out to fans who noticed mistakes in the stories, but instead of admitting them as mistakes created clever reason why it wasn’t really a mistake at all.
An example might be Wolverine in an X-Men comic being drawn in the middle of a fight pounding someone without his claws, when in the panels before and after his claws had been extended. A suitable answer worthy of the No-Prize would have been that Wolverine’s claws periodically become dulled and need to be retracted and popped out again to regain sharpness.
Intelligent? No. Possible? Perhaps.
All around us these days you will find people answering No-Prizes without even getting an empty envelope in the mail for their troubles.
—–Fundie X-tians are foiled by dinosaur bones when believing the world to be only 6000 years old? No problem! Jews buried the bones in the 1920s!
—–Government documents about Roswell show that it was indeed bits and pieces of a top secret weather balloon aren’t as fun as believing in crashed UFO’s? No problem! The government forged the documents!
—–Someone crashed a couple planes into some big buildings, but we don’t know who? Forget it! It was Saddam, and he has WOMD!
I propose that Discordians revive the tradition of the No-Prize and send them out to all the people who use specious reasoning to satiate themselves.
Today’s Lesson
LESSON #1
A handgun is a reality.
A blue uniform is a reality.
A “Police Officer” is a social fiction.
LESSON #2
Paper is a reality.
Printing presses are a reality.
“Money” is a social fiction.
LESSON #3
Land is a reality.
Population is a reality.
“Prime Minister” is a social fiction.
Oprah, Surely You Jest
The entire brou-ha-ha over the so-called fictions in James Frey’s “A Million Little Pieces” is bringing me dangerously close to a nonstop tidal-wave of barf. Are these people kidding, or do people just like drama and love to jump on a bandwagon of hate? Probably both, let’s be honest we are a lynching people. Sources disagree to exactly how many witches were actually killed in the infamous witch trials, but let’s be honest: they were killing witches because they liked it, not because they really felt threatened by them. Ditto for the Spanish Inquisition. People love to see someone hounded and caught, whether they want to admit it or not, even to themselves. James Frey is just the most recent, and one of the more juicy, victims.
On her show yesterday Oprah Winfrey berated author James Frey for “betraying millions of readers.” I would love to ask her majesty if she truly believes, in her heart of hearts, whether every other memoir and autobiography she has ever read was 100% true. If she does believe that she is, in my opinion, at best extremely naive and at worst a deluded fool. Memories are by definition subjective, there is no getting around that. We do not have access to other’s memories, or some preternatural objective memory computer, so the best we can do is retell things as we believed they happened. This makes every single memoir and autobiography ever printed fiction, whether you would like to believe it or not.
I don’t know whether James Frey intentionally altered what he believed to be the truth in his memoir, nor do I care. I choose to think for myself, and not have others tell me how things are or are not. When I heard about the hole in the cheek and the dentist visit minus Novocain I immediately and instinctively felt that these stories were false. Did I know for certain? No, but if one is even slightly savvy they would ask themselves a multitude of questions concerning these two incidents, most of which would lead to the conclusion of fiction entering the narrative. Do I care? No, I do not.
Q: Why do we read?
A: We read to be entertained.
Were you entertained by the book? If so, great; if not, fantastic too, but can you really say you were more entertained when you thought it was true? If so, why?
This entire debacle reminds me of the people who took their Milli Vanilli records back to the store when it turned out the singers of the songs were not who the listeners thought they were – I remember thinking at the time: “But isn’t it the MUSIC these people enjoyed? The music remains the same.”
And so, people, I tell you: the words remain the same.
5 Things I Am Sick Of Hearing
1) You can see the Great Wall Of China from space
2) You have to be cruel to be kind
3) But, with the windchill factor it’s actually X
4) Joyce’s Ulysses is about the styles and satires
5) “ASAP” as if it’s a word
One Less "Canadian"
I’ve never really considered myself belonging to any “nation” – the idea of some person arbitrarily drawing imaginary lines around areas of land and then telling people “you live in country A, and the person over there lives in country B.” has always seemed ridiculous to me.
But, despite that, today I have decided to renounce whatever nationality I did possess: I am no longer Canadian.
I may live within the borders of what is considered Canada, but I am not a member.
I will not call Stephen ‘anything for a chuckle’ Harper my Prime Minister. I refuse. He may be your Prime Minister, but he is certainly not mine.
When I can afford it I will be moving to Chad.
So long, suckers.
On The Subject Of: Reincarnation
There was a point in my life when I was pondering many issues of human nature, and wondering if what we did now effected what might happen to us after we died . . . I was laying face down on the linoleum tiled floor, which is one of the six places I happen to ponder those types of issues best. The other five were too far away. The closest place is almost always the best place, for me.
While I mused abstractly I entertained myself by blowing a single piece of cereal across the tile floor, trying to outdo myself with each puff. As the cereal rolled across the floor it bumped into what appeared to be a large shard of deeply varnished wood. I was, in fact, under the impression it was wood until it skittered toward me.
I was deeply concerned to witness a rather large cockroach sprinting toward my face, but was even more concerned when it raised it's antennae and addressed me. -DR HOOPLA! it called in a deep basso profundo.
-Gah? I choked in answer. I stand by it as a valid response, under the circumstances.
-CALL ME GULIK. I AM A MESSENGER. I COME HITHER AND DITHER TO TEACH YOU ABOUT REINCARNATION.
-Zah! I gagged, being still an ignorant fool, and lacking full enlightenment.
The roach tittered over to the cupboard near my head and opened it, revealing hundreds of cockroaches crawling through my garbage. I don't know what stopped vomit from spewing out of every pour in my body, but I'm thankful it didn't. I hacked again as Gulik said, -THESE ARE THE CHOSEN OF ERIS. THEIR ENLIGHTENMENT WILL ALLOW THEM TO MOVE UP THE LADDER AFTER THIS LIFE TO KOALA IN THE NEXT LIFE.
-Koala? I asked. -That's the next step up from cockroach?
-OF COURSE. DESPITE WHAT YOU MAY BELIEVE COCKROACHES LIVE A RATHER IDEAL LIFE FOR THE MOST PART. MOST LIVE IN, OR VERY NEAR, GARBAGE . . . THE CENTRAL DIET OF OUR KIND. AND, I DON'T KNOW IF YOU'VE NOTICED YET OR NOT, BUT THE WORLD IS FULL OF GARBAGE, GROWING STEADILY BY THE HOUR. THERE WILL NEVER BE STARVATION FOR COCKROACHES.
-But, why are Koalas the next step up the ladder? I asked.
-FOR ALMOST THE SAME REASON. KOALAS LIVE IN EUCALYPTUS TREES, WHICH IS THE SOURCE OF THEIR MAIN FOOD: EUCALYPTUS LEAVES. BUT, THERE ARE FIVE ADDITIONS TO THE KOALA WHICH PLACE IT A NOTCH ABOVE US:
1) THEY ARE ACCEPTED THROUGHOUT THE WORLD BY ALL SPECIES OF MAN BEAST AND INSECT (EXCEPT FOR COCKROACHES) AS THE CUTEST ANIMAL IN EXISTENCE.
2) THEIR CENTRAL DIET, EUCALYPTUS LEAVES, ARE PSYCHEDELIC, SO ALL KOALAS ARE ETERNALLY STONED.
3) THE EUCALYPTUS LEAVES CAUSE THE KOALA'S URINE TO SMELL FANTASTIC, WHICH IS UNIQUE IN THE WORLD.
4) KOALAS ARE PSYCHIC, SO THEY CAN-
-Holy shit! I exclaimed. -For real??
-YES.
-Prove it.
-FUCK YOU, WHAT DO I CARE IF YOU BELIEVE ME?
-Sorry.
-WHERE WAS I?
-The fifth reason.
-RIGHT. THERE IS NO FIFTH REASON.
-So, I asked. -What is above Koalas?
-SRIZZLEFISH.
-What the holy Hades are Srizzlefish?
-THERE ARE ONLY EVER FIVE SRIZZLEFISH ALIVE AT ANY GIVEN TIME. SO THERE IS A LONG WAITING LIST. THEY LIVE ANYWHERE FROM TWO HUNDRED TO FIVE HUNDRED YEARS. THEY JUST FLOAT AROUND ON THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN, COMPLETELY ENLIGHTENED. THEY REQUIRE NO SUSTENANCE, THEY SIMPLY . . . ARE.
-Great Googly Moogly. What's above Srizzlefish?
-NOTHING.
-Nothing? How can there be nothing above Srizzlefish? Something must be.
-NO. THERE ISN'T. THAT'S IT. THE END. KAPUT.
-So, if there's nothing above Srizzlefish, when do you become human?
-PFFFH! Gulik laughed. -WHAT'RE YOU, KIDDING ME? AND TAKE A HUGE STEP BACK DOWN THE LADDER? YOU'RE ON GOOFBALLS.
Thus, I was enlightened.St. Jerome Day
From “Ghostbusters”:
Venkman: “Have you, or any member of your family, ever been diagnosed schizophrenic? Mentally incompetent?”
Librarian: “My uncle thought he was St. Jerome.”
Venkman: “I’d say that’s a big yes.”
Jerome (342-420) is generally credited with having translated the Bible into the Vulgate (Latin); however a large part of the work was done by Paula and her daughter Eustochium after they all had settled in Bethlehem in 386. They worked on the translation and, when Jerome submitted his translations to them for correction and amendment, polished up his work as well. The work was finished about 404. Although Jerome dedicated a great number of his translations to the two women, later scholars erased their names and substituted the words ‘learned brothers.’
Those fucking scholars will screw you ever time.
-Dr Hoopla
When Conversing With A Tree:
When conversing with a tree it is important to keep certain facts in mind . . . Most importantly, that almost all trees loathe conversations about the weather. I have no idea why this is, but it's true. This is an enormous bone of contention with them, and some become quite irate by the simple phrase 'hot, ain't it?', so to be safe, avoid all conversations about weather. Unless you are conversing with a Birch Tree, in which case weather is all they are interested in talking about.
Also, it good to keep some taboo topics in mind, so that uncomfortable silences can be avoided; some topics include Maple Syrup, the trees from the Wizard of Oz, The Spanish Inquisition, and antique wooden furniture. In fact, it's probably within your best interest to steer clear of any topics revolving around wood.
Lastly, the one topic you never, but EVER, want to engage a tree into conversation about is the philosophical concept of Dualism. I made the mistake once, and was so bored to tears I found myself waking up six months later, covered in moss and growing mushrooms from my face. But, hey, I always was a fun guy.
Dear Muddy,
Cheer up, Muddy, remember that life is short. Life is often brutal and depressing, have fun while you're able. Smile, laugh, giggle, even guffaw when you can. Muddy, you and I both know that there were times when you had fun, I've even seen you attempt to roller-skate. Granted, that was during the Carter Administration, but still, the joie de vivre was in your blood then and can't truly be snuffed out, once ignited. I'd give my Aunt Jodie's wooden left leg to see you jitterbugging all over the rink again, with a pillow tied to your fanny.
Muddy, what's wrong with walking in the rain? The term 'acid rain' is mostly poetic anyway, nobody I know curled up and died from letting some drops fall on their tongue. Do you think you're made from sugar? I used to think so, but now I'm not so sure . . . care to prove to me you are?
Don't work so hard, Muddy, the work will always be there. Like what people say about making the bed, it just gets messed up again anyway. Remember that work is for money, and that money is for fun, so in the end work is just a means to an end.
Muddy, why do you reject the amusement park? Don't you realize those wonderful places are the earthly temples of Eris? They are a veritable diorama of our entire planet, metaphorically showing us what the world can be, if we want it to be. Yes, the rides sometimes derail, and yes, nasty people sometimes abduct kiddies, but you can't focus on the bad, or that's all you will see. Think about the fun-house, and the corn dogs, the popcorn, the roller-coaster, and the Fat Lady, my lord, don't ever forget the Fat Lady. When she cries, Muddy, she cries for you . . . but when she sings, she sings for the world.
Why don't you sing, Muddy? Are you afraid your pipes have rusted up over the years? Well, I'm a plumber, Muddy, and I can help rattle those pipes if you will only allow yourself to loosen the foundations. When I sing I can feel it all the way down to my disco-dancing toes, and it seems to bring an electric charge to every atom in this prison I call my body, you don't think you could use that kind of boost? While I'm on the topic, why don't you dance Muddy? I've even seen dogs and cats tango together under a grapefruit moon, do you think you're better than them?
Why don't you join us, Muddy, we love you. We want you to look back at the end and say that you lived every day to it's fullest. Will you really care when you are on your way out whether you were always calm, cool and collected, or will you just care that you lived? Muddy, remember what my friend Sally once said: "What good is sitting all alone in your room? Come hear the music play . . . life is a cabaret, old chum. Come to the cabaret.
your loving chum,
-BVH
your loving chum,
-BVH
The Burning Bush
At a low period in my life I was seeking enlightenment. Lounging around in my empty bathtub, fully clothed, I pondered the sorry state of this world. Wondering if this was really this and that was actually that, and whether tit really did anything for tat. Realizing that at this point I had stopped philosophizing, and was merely invoking Suess I decided that it was time to move outdoors, to breathe in fresh smog and bask in the milky autumn sun; in other words, to seek my enlightenment in the world.
On the sidewalk in front of my building I spotted an Oh Henry candybar. Looking around, I saw nobody who seemed ready to lay a claim on it - the bar seemed to be up for grabs. I crouched down and examined it closely, without touching it, of course. I wasn't about to become insnared by some intrepid alien or wily big game hunter. I didn't, however, detect any strings, and the sidewalk around the candy seemed unmolested. The bar was mine. Snatching it up, I moved to a bench to consume it in comfort at my own leisure. It was chocolatey, it was caramely, it was nugety, it was sweet and it was gooey. It did not, however, enlighten me.
Sitting on the bench, I sighed. Where next should I seek my enlightenment? As I mulled this query over I took notice of a small book on the bench next to me. Curious, I picked it up, and read the cover: it was the Collected Short Stories of O. Henry.
This was a stunning coincidence. This, undoubtedly, meant something. As I opened the book to peruse the contents I was struck by something that made the book altogether more strange - all the pages were torn out, save those between seventy and sevety-seven, a story entitled The Green Door. I felt this story must be of cosmic significance, and so devoured it on the spot. Here would finally be the answers to all the questions I wanted answered. I read the story in a few minutes, and chuckled once or twice, was saddened at least once, and sighed at the end. The story was touching and amusing, but it did not, however, answer my questions.
I felt perplexed. I felt confused. I felt discombobulated. I did not, however, feel enlightened.
Still searching, I walked.
I walked five blocks, came upon the Deuce, and was then struck down to the pavement with another stunning coincidence. The Victory Theater was screening Behind The Green Door. This was a stunning synchronicity. This, undoubtedly, meant something. I paid my admission, bought another Oh Henry bar at the candy counter, and made my way up to the balcony. The movie had already started as I made my way through the sickeningly clammy sound of about a hundred and fifty people beating their meat in the audience. I shuffled into the back row and tried to find a seat which hadn't been issued upon. As I sat down -just for a laugh- I began to smack the palm of my hand against the back of my neck furiously, and moan overly loud. The monkey spanking subsided for just about seventeen seconds. I chuckled to myself, and began to unwrap my candy bar.
As I took the first bite I realized the movie had stopped in place on the screen. Marilyn Chambers's legs were spread-eagled, and all her glory was up close and center stage, so to speak. So many euphemisms which are inappropriate rattled through my brian . . . tacos and beavers should not be compared to the same part of the body described as The Mound Of Venus. As this thought fluttered through my mind I also noticed the utter silence in the theatre. There were no longer any sounds of auto-eroticism whatsoever, in fact my fellow patrons seemed to be petrified in the more literal sense. I became alarmed by this, but was even more alarmed when Marilyn Chambers's bush on-screen burst into flames, and began to speak to me.
DR HOOPLA, a smooth female voice called from the burning bush. YOU MADE LEVITY IN A PLACE OF SOLEMN WORSHIP.
I gulped, since there seemed little else to do under the circumstances.
HOW DO YOU STAND AGAINST THESE CHARGES? the female voice asked. Guilty, I hiccuped. I had mocked the meat-beaters. My candy bar was melting in my hand. I could feel it.
GOOD. said the voice. YOU'RE ONE OF MINE.
Who, who are you? I asked.
I YAM WHO I YAM, came the reply.
Popeye?! I exclaimed. It didn't sound like Popeye.
NAY, I AM CALLED ERIS NANCY DISCORDIA. GODDESS OF CHAOS CONFUSION STRIFE CREATIVITY AND BUREAUCRACY. I AM THE HODGE OF THE RISING PODGE AND THE PODGE OF THE SINKING HODGE.
Why me? I asked, not cowering as blatantly as a few moments prior, but still cowering nonetheless.
FOR YOU ARE A GOOD APPLE. YOU ARE AWAKE ENOUGH TO QUESTION, SKEPTICAL ENOUGH TO QUESTION THE APPARENT ANSWERS, GULLIBLE ENOUGH TO FOLLOW MYSTERY, HUMOROUS ENOUGH TO MOCK THE SERIOUS AND SERIOUS ENOUGH TO AWAKEN IN THE FIRST PLACE. YOU EMBODY THE IDEALS OF THE SACRED CHAO, AND LO, I DEEM YOU A KEEPER OF IT.
Why have you come? I asked.
BECAUSE THE AVERAGE CANADIAN HAS ONLY ONE TESTICLE. the voice said.
Say what? I asked.
BECAUSE NOBODY CAN PRODUCE AN AVERAGE CAT. the voice continued.
Wha? I queried.
BECAUSE EVEN VOMIT CAN BE ART! FARE THEE WELL-
Wait! One last question! Why Nancy??
WHAT?
Why Eris Nancy Discordia? I asked. Why Nancy?
NANCY'S A NICE NAME. FARE THEE WELL KEEPER OF MY SACRED CHAO! SPREAD MY WORD - ALL MEN SHALL BE SAILORS THEN UNTIL THE SEA SHALL FREE THEM!
Wait! I called, You stole that from Leonard Cohen!
NAY - HE STOLE THAT FROM ME.
Thus, I was enlightened.
The bush ceased to burn. The film ran forward. The manhandling kicked back in, but sounded more serene this time, like a gentle rainfall on a tin roof. I walked outside, and promptly slipped on a banana peel, while thinking 'Indeed, do many strange things come to pass.'
The Myth Of Ichabod
There once was a huge boulder, perched precariously, on the edge of a cliff. For hundreds of years this boulder was there, rocking and swaying, but always keeping its balance just perfectly. But one year, there happened to be a sever windstorm; severe enough it was, to topple the boulder from its majectic height and dash it to the bottom cf the cliff, far far below. Needless to say, the boulder was smashed into many pieces. Where it hit, the ground was covered with a carpet of pebbles–some small and some large–but pebbles and pebbles and more pebbles for as far as you could walk in an hour.
One day, after all this, a young man by the name of Ichabod happened on the area. Being a fellow of keen mind and observational powers, naturally he was quite astounded to see so many stones scattered so closely on the ground. Now Ichabod was very much interested in the nature of things, and he spent the whole afternoon looking at pebbles, and measuring the size of pebbles, and feeling the weight of pebbles, and just pondering about pebbles in general.
He spent the night there, not wanting to lose this miraculous find, and awoke the next morning full of enthusiasm. He spent many days on his carpet of stones.
Eventually he noticed a very strange thing. There were three rather large stones on the carpet and they formed a triangle–almost (but not quite) equilateral. He was amazed. Looking further he found four very white stones that were arranged in a lopsided square. Then he saw that by disregarding one white stone and thinking of that grey stone a foot over instead, it was a perfect square! And if you chose this stone, and that stone, and that one, and that one and that one you have a pentagon as large as the triangle. And here a small hexagon. And there a square partially inside of the hexagon. And a decagon. And two triangles inter-locked. And a circle. And a smaller circle within the circle. And a triangle within that which has a red stone, a grey stone and a white stone.
Ichabod spent many hours finding many designs that became more and more complicated as his powers of observation grew with practice. Then he began to log his designs in a large leather book; and as he counted designs and described them, the pages began to fill as the sun continued to return.
He had begun his second ledger when a friend came by. His friend was a poet and also interested in the nature of things.
“My friend,” cried Ichabod, “come quickly! I have discovered the most wonderous thing in the universe.” The poet hurried over to him, quite anxious to see what it was.
Ichabod showed him the carpet of stones…but the poet only laughed and said “It’s nothing but scattered rocks!”
“But look,” said Ichabod, ’see this triangle and that [square] and that and that.” And he proceeded to show his friend the harvest of his many days study. When the poet saw the designs he turned to the ledgers and by the time he was finished with these, he too was overwhelmed.
He began to write poetry about the marvelous designs. And as he wrote and contemplated he became sure that the designs must mean something. Such order and beauty is too monumental to be senseless. And the designs were there, Ichabod had showed him that.
The poet went back to the village and read his new poetry. And all who heard him went to the cliff to see first hand the [carpet] of designs. And all returned to the village to spread the word. Then as the enthusiasm grew there developed a group of those who love beauty and nature, all of whom went to live right at the Designs themselves. Together they wanted to see every design that was there.
Some wrote ledger about just triangles. Others described the circles. Others concentrated on red colored stones–and they happened to be the first to see designs springing from outside the carpet. They, and some others, saw designs everywhere they went.
“How blind we have been,” they said.
The movement grew and grew and grew. And all who could see the designs knew that they had to have been put there by a Great Force. “Nothing but a Great Force,” said the philosophers, “could create this immense beauty!”
“Yes,” said the world, “nothing but a god could create such magnificent order. Nothing but a God.”
And that was the day that God was born. And ever since then, all men have known Him for His infinite power and all men have loved Him for His infinite wisdom.
-Malaclypse the Younger
One day, after all this, a young man by the name of Ichabod happened on the area. Being a fellow of keen mind and observational powers, naturally he was quite astounded to see so many stones scattered so closely on the ground. Now Ichabod was very much interested in the nature of things, and he spent the whole afternoon looking at pebbles, and measuring the size of pebbles, and feeling the weight of pebbles, and just pondering about pebbles in general.
He spent the night there, not wanting to lose this miraculous find, and awoke the next morning full of enthusiasm. He spent many days on his carpet of stones.
Eventually he noticed a very strange thing. There were three rather large stones on the carpet and they formed a triangle–almost (but not quite) equilateral. He was amazed. Looking further he found four very white stones that were arranged in a lopsided square. Then he saw that by disregarding one white stone and thinking of that grey stone a foot over instead, it was a perfect square! And if you chose this stone, and that stone, and that one, and that one and that one you have a pentagon as large as the triangle. And here a small hexagon. And there a square partially inside of the hexagon. And a decagon. And two triangles inter-locked. And a circle. And a smaller circle within the circle. And a triangle within that which has a red stone, a grey stone and a white stone.
Ichabod spent many hours finding many designs that became more and more complicated as his powers of observation grew with practice. Then he began to log his designs in a large leather book; and as he counted designs and described them, the pages began to fill as the sun continued to return.
He had begun his second ledger when a friend came by. His friend was a poet and also interested in the nature of things.
“My friend,” cried Ichabod, “come quickly! I have discovered the most wonderous thing in the universe.” The poet hurried over to him, quite anxious to see what it was.
Ichabod showed him the carpet of stones…but the poet only laughed and said “It’s nothing but scattered rocks!”
“But look,” said Ichabod, ’see this triangle and that [square] and that and that.” And he proceeded to show his friend the harvest of his many days study. When the poet saw the designs he turned to the ledgers and by the time he was finished with these, he too was overwhelmed.
He began to write poetry about the marvelous designs. And as he wrote and contemplated he became sure that the designs must mean something. Such order and beauty is too monumental to be senseless. And the designs were there, Ichabod had showed him that.
The poet went back to the village and read his new poetry. And all who heard him went to the cliff to see first hand the [carpet] of designs. And all returned to the village to spread the word. Then as the enthusiasm grew there developed a group of those who love beauty and nature, all of whom went to live right at the Designs themselves. Together they wanted to see every design that was there.
Some wrote ledger about just triangles. Others described the circles. Others concentrated on red colored stones–and they happened to be the first to see designs springing from outside the carpet. They, and some others, saw designs everywhere they went.
“How blind we have been,” they said.
The movement grew and grew and grew. And all who could see the designs knew that they had to have been put there by a Great Force. “Nothing but a Great Force,” said the philosophers, “could create this immense beauty!”
“Yes,” said the world, “nothing but a god could create such magnificent order. Nothing but a God.”
And that was the day that God was born. And ever since then, all men have known Him for His infinite power and all men have loved Him for His infinite wisdom.
-Malaclypse the Younger
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