Monday, May 30, 2011


I suppose the title of this installment provided the necessary clue. So now you know it's me. I come to you from deep under the former naval shipyard, well hidden within the bowels of The Anti-Enchantment-Bureau. What a name that is. Look, call us whatever you want. Say we're 'Sally's Dirty Knickers.' of The Rancid Peach Pie Society. Do you wretched masses really think that I care? My Intelligence Quotient is to yours as yours is to the bedbugs who torment you.

But I do understand that some of you are waiting for this opus to ooze  down certain pathways, so I will tell you this much, that 'force' out in the woods (and I mean the South Tyrolian Woods Jonathon and Sarah are currently frolicing about in) is none other than the legendary RENATE. I know she's been wandering around these pages for a while, threatening to make an appearance, waiting in the etherial wings, coolin' her heels in the Great Astral Green Room, but worthy demi-goddess that she is, she just (and I quote) 'can't take this chicken shit crap no more.'........Remember, she was born long before the laws of syntax, decorum, or grammar were even thought of. People said 'chicken shit' a lot back then. I'm told some still use the term today.  And It seems that Little Annie is planning a major career change too. What it is, I do not know. But the mermaid-hag we keep here picks up things. She keeps chanting 'children's crusade...children's crusade...'  Yet it's hard  to understand her, what with all the Wagner playing in the background. She's convinced she was one of the original Lorelei immortalized in the Great Jew Haters famous score. I've tried to explain the futility of that poosition. We got her off a whaling ship cruising the Azores. The Rhineland was nowhere in sight, but she doesn't want to know that. Milton, one of my closest associates, tells her we got her off a label from Chicken of the Sea. Can you imagine if people had to look at her shrivled form smiling down from a grocery shelf? Albacore the world over would rejoice.

So Renate is about to sing her first aria. I think she means to tell our two Philadelphia based love birds something pertaining to their quest. My own forays into the universal ether (via the Great Armonica) provide me with a certain measure of knowledge. It seems a former boyfriend of hers was a guy, or heavenly personage, I should say, who flunked out of Michael the Archangel's Officer Candidate School. Not quite a fallen angel, just a dumb one who tried to crib a few answers hastily scribbled onto the inside of his left wing. One encounters types like that all over.

Why didn't any of the usual characters, or their attendant disembodied spirits come through to you tonight? They didn't because they're hurt and angry. After ten months of nightly truth-tellings, coupled with sincere expectations of imminent fame (even the D-List would have sufficed), they've only managed to drum up just under twelve thousand hits, a goodly sum, when compared to the rest of the universal blogisphere. But they're not spitting out macaroni recipes and half-assed investment tips here. These personages...ARE PERSONAGES. They take you behind the very vault of heaven, into the tick-tock workings of the cosmos, while you lust after vampires of a lesser god.  And that especially hurts some of the hot ones. Why do you think Baylah squanders so much time in Atlantic city poker rooms. How come Jonathon spends so much money on his cunning, little, black leather bootkins? Jeez, open your eyes. Sure, Papa remains stoic and above it all, but he plays and plays and plays his DVD's of old Richard Gere movies and thinks--- 'why not me?'

So be a little 'human' (I assume that's what most of you are). Visit more often. And bring some of your little friends along with you. All right? That's all I'm going to say now. I gotta go oversee the bathing of the Sasquatch.

And if any of you snide, little pieces of baggage ridicule me for my typing skills, may hades down you whole. I'm a 'doctor,' God damn it, not a secretary.....

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