TheRemoteSectOfTheLostWinnebago
 
    The Eternal Ligature --- ka-ka?
 
Warning:  do not read this at home.  Doing so may cause prodigious damage 
to your pineal gland (see gland, pineal) and also bring the wrath of "Bob" 
upon you (which is no worse than eating a flatulent duck at the Francais 
Butcher).  This information is for the head only.  Any other use 
constitutes fraud and is immedeately dealt with in the harshest manner 
unimaginable (Jason is peanuts to us.  We ate Freddy for brunch and thought 
he needed salt).  So hold on to your gonads because the full irrelevance is 
about to be misinterpreted right before your very eyes (all three of them).
 
Tribal cross-rip identification is easily accomplished:  the inquiree (the 
one froppish enough to actually CARE that another beasture is/ is not a 
Remote -- a sure danger sign) hums a dirty tune, something like West Side 
Story, but with kinky words, then emits the first verse of the Foundative 
Flatulence, to wit:  "Where are we, Martha?"  (Aspirees take note:  
substitute any dis-reasonably common amusing female and/or male name 
[hints...good ones: Martha, Madge, Bertram, John.  Bad ones: Stacy, Trudi, 
Mike, Allen])  This must be passed off in a completely authentic midwestern 
accent, which is phonephied thusly: "Whaer orr wee", unless your watch is 
on an even second, when you should use the alternate mystique method, which 
is to pronounce it as you always would.
 
The deepness of the Foundative Flatulence is this:  expressing the 
perpetual wonder in the ongoing chaorder of life, you must stop and at 
times seek a point of reference.  While those we are limited to 
communucating with are also awash in the piss-river of eternity and who 
therefore ALSO completely lack any useful or real information, it is, if 
nothing else, comforting to know that you are not alone (unless you've 
initiated the Eternal Ligature with a large lunchmeat or other inanimate 
object in which case you probably haven't been taking enough amphetamines).
 
If the fellow to whom this statement is addressed has his wits about him, 
he will immediately phone 911.  This is in all seriousness very deviant 
behaviour, and people have been shot for less (i.e. snoring).  Obviously 
enough, the danger is minimal -- wit is in short supply these days having 
been rumbled upon by elephants at the last revolution.  Bored Remote 
Bretheren with nothing better to do might deign to reply with the Ritual 
Retort, which reads, "I don't know, but I think we're out of Cleveland."  
Forthcoming is the deeply sensual, oddly erotic, and highly flammable 
deepness:  The Ritual Report, awe inspiring in its apparent simplicity, 
brings forth many meanings, of which we now present 2 (two) fully 
unexpurgated (dual radial retread) semantic decryptions:  1) 
admittance/confirmation of self lost in the ideolocigal piss-water of 
interpretations and perceptions.  2) heartfelt relief from the universal 
knowledge that no matter how fucked you are, you could almost certainly be 
more fucked (it COULD be happening to you in CLEVELAND).
 
Both participees then, as mutual boredom has been assured, cluck several 
times in the classic grouper manner, then exault: "Thank God ["Bob"/
Spam/Other Deity]!!" with triple enthusiasm.  This last bit is merely 
self-indulgent mouth masturbation -- whatever keeps you happy.  Want some 
more toffee?  Have a danish.
 
Alert!  Post no bills!  Anorexic home-maker pantry sale: everything must 
go!  Lost in the space/time continuum at 4:24 pm, Sunday last: <anchovy 
slice with bacon dressing>  Bernie:  I know where you shit, and you outta 
be ashamed.  Please lv msg in reply to msg 647/a333 to Khan,G behind the 
dumpster at Red's lounge.  End of longitude.

--
;ndftohicu et nibbuc ddohinp