Blow your mind without drugs or a gun

A mind trip unlike any other.  The wild adventures of a humble, easy-going couple in  a small, nondescript American town, including those of a diverse, ever-changing, weird cast of friends and acquaintances, young and old.  This amiably outlandish, often irreverent, R-rated tale is closing in on 1,000 episodes,  each enjoyable on a stand-alone basis.  Begun on Sept. 26, 2010, it is now, according to some sources the longest true novel ever written and published in English, closing in on 1.5 million words, 5,000 pages and 1,000 episodes ....  Just in its three -plus years of existence, at this site and the Skunkville thread at CNN/SI, plus a few other occasional venues,  the Saga has received more than250,000 reader visits.   Kirkus Reviews said of Skunkville Saga, 'A relentless, bizarre phantasmagoria', 'Few reading experiences match this one', 'Totally unpredictable', 'otherworldly', 'madcap', 'flippant', 'continue(s), endlessly, down a rabbit hole of absurdity....' 'will appeal to.... most adventurous readers'  These are hard times for books/novels, yet Skunkville, by redefining and re-engineering the novel from scratch, flourishes on its own tireless, bizarre energy and endless charm...despite lack of any publisher backing or commercial interest.  Nowadays, there are far more people reading Skunkville than 99% of other existing fiction works!  Books judged most similar to Skunkville according to Kirkus critics:

by Thomas Pynchon
Cover art for FINNEGANS WAKE
by James Joyce


Narrator: 'I just want to apologize to each and every one of you: Edna, Walt. Fiddles... About my recent drunken behavior. But I'm back on track now: You'll see!'
Edna: 'I believe you, Mr. N.... I really do. I never have ever doubted or felt badly toward you...even when you threw up all over Uncle Leonard last night, and I had to spend hours cleaning him off per his specifications!'
N, trying to find a way to symbolize their renewed rapport: 'Well, then. As a peace offering, may I give you a Hump....or even two if you like??'
Bowery Boys

Edna replies kindly to my humble and sincere offer of a Hump -- or anything else she might like that I can possibly provide to her... Her reaction delights me...I would even definitely say excites me!

How could I have stooped so low to drinking Tombstone Gin out of the bottle in front of the a Bowery Boy.... over the last couple of days...  And then barfing on Uncle Leonard's lap when he was telling me a bedtime story to help calm me down so I could become drowsy enough to fall into a healthy, restorative, deep sleep.

I tried to help clean it off...but he said he'd rather I lay down on the couch so I wouldn't upchuck again on the clean one of his two sets of clothes.

Edna, pushing away my proferred pack of cigarettes, with a couple of the Humps (Camels brand, you know...) sticking up out of the package, an offer for our joint consumption:  'In one sense, I do find your offer of a Hump, capital H, charming and thrilling... On the other hand, perhaps we can jointly consider an alternative 'brand' of Hump with a capital H which would be healthier and even more enjoyable than these Camels.'

Me:  'Hmmmm....  Let me see....'

Edna reaches out towards me as I stand there awkwardly in front of her easy chair:  'Come my boy... Let us put our heads together... Remember, two heads are better than one...'

I for some strange reason reply, probably just to be in sync with her neat statement: 'Yes, two Humps are surely better than one, whichever way you take it.'

With that, I nestle in together with her in her comfy chair, not really sitting on her lap due to concern about my moderate size and weight versus her petite but still quite shapely figure.  'Mommy!' I say like a baby.... just as a joke of course, as I wrap my arms around her gently.'

'Good boy, good baby...' Edna says soothingly, gently rubbing my hair.... the hair on my head...whoops, now even the hair on my of my shirt buttons must have been opened or something....Mmmmmmm.... I feel so good....With my beeeoootiful Mommy.... I rest my head gently on her breast.

'Hey, girly-pal:  Why is it becoming so nicely warm in here?  Did you turn up the thermostat before I sat down with you?'

'No, no... It's just the warmth a man feels in the complete comfort of a woman who loves him...'

'Yeah... But I'm 35 years old.... What if one of my friends looks in the window and tells the others that I'm acting like a baby?'

'Ahhhh, there now... I think you're just becoming relaxed and almost sleepy from being with Momma... Some people say I still look like I'm only 35, even though I'm a few years older than that....'

'Yeah, but what if Uncle Walt comes home while we're resting together....  He might want me to leave and never return because I monopolized his wife while he was at CrxpMart buying dogfood for Fiddles, who's recovering from whatever happened to him in a recent episode...Ate a big Orgasmically Grown cookie as I recall now....'

'Yes, my handsome friend.... yes.... yes...'

'Gee, Mrs. Brown, you sure are soft in all the places where you're supposed to be soft...... And firm in all the places where you're supposed to be firm......And big in all the places where you're supposed to be big.....And small in all...'

'Ssssssh, my darling.  You have had a hard time.... A hard life.... Like spitting up all that nasty Campbell's Vodka yesterday...after drinking way too much of it....but I guess it was better than keeping it in your body... You still reek of it!'

'Yes, yes, momma, or lover, or whomever you really are... But I thought if Campbell's soups were so mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-good, their Vodka would be just the same....'

'Yes, darling... But there is more than one company named Campbell in the world.... besides, I think this Vodka Campbell's actual name is actually CampoBello Vodka ...'

'Hey, mommy.... That rings a bell -- I think You're right.... Didn't Roosevelt 'Rosey' Grier, the great football player, have a house on a Campbell O' Soup Island, or something like that??'

'Shusssh now dear... I'm almost beginning to wonder about what I'm doing with you myself now...the more you ramble on....'

I sit up like I've suddenly been hit by lightning:  'Hey... You're a married woman... I can't be offering you a Hump!  That will create 2nd hand smoke that could affect your chillins...'

'Okay, I give up:  Go over and  sit on Walt's chair.... It was just so nice having someone besides grungy old Walt in my arms for a few ecstatic moments.'

I put my arms out to her, signalling it's okay for her to come over and sit in my chair:  'I know I'm really blowing my Narrator job and will likely be fired post haste... But I am so needy of the love of a beautiful woman, I cannot resist.  I promise, though, my solemn vow, that I will not try to kiss you or fxxl you up!!'

Edna, standing back, pale:  'What?  What??  Haven't you heard and read about how liberal and open our marriage is... At least as far as me doing things that are edgy.  Walt prefers that I 'play' with people whom he knows and likes -- like you for instance...'

'What gave you the idea that he likes me?  Uncle Leonard wasn't too keen on me, and I don't blame him... so Uncle Walt probably feels about the same!'

'Well, Walt, the lovable old fool, loves and admires practically everyone.... Even Snidely Whiplash and Richard Nixon...and Billy Carter...'

Then we stop talking, as Edna comes over and gently cuddles together with me in my chair, softly rubbing and touching each other.....It was the most perfect bliss I have ever experience.... But not quite.  I was too worried about Walt coming home abruptly and what I would do with my feelings if I fell in love with Edna...Which I probably have already done..'






Narrator and Uncle Leonard

'Son, there's something wrong or missing concerning your head. You need to have a doctor look at you, really!'
'You senile old loser... You mean you haven't seen the wave of the future yet in head design?'
Walt: 'You know, Edna... I think this linoleum kitchen floor may need a bit of repair and freshening up...It must be over 60 years since we layed it down with our own four hands..!'
Edna's inadvertently evil ('Stare into my eyes... You must stare into my eyes...', it hypnotically whispers to all kitchen visitors) giant-watch-like clock, purchased at a Haloween Fair, on the far wall as you enter the kitchen unfortunately tends to be the visual focal point of the visitors nervously want to 'keep an eye on the daxned thing!'

And of course, one shady aspect of the Browns, supposedly the near-perfect archetypes of the wholesome people who have characterized Skunkville over the years, is the decades-long presence (imprisonment?) of elderly but spry Uncle Leonard in the Brown's dark, depressing back hallway...

'Uncle Leonard....  Is it true that you have been held hostage here since 19 and 17?'

Uncle Leonard puts down yesterday's edition of the highly popular Skunkville Corn Holler and Corn Hxler, which Walt & Edna generously let him borrow before it is put beneath sloppy-eating Fiddles' dog bowl in the kitchen the townspeople's favorite newsrag.

'Huh?' he replies evasively.  'My hearing ain't so hot any more, sonny....  And, I'm never much been one for conversationing anywho.  So why don't you be a good boy and go back and study the famous owners of this home.... No one's interested in me.  Time has proven that.  There is something incredibly boring and forgettable about me...'

Huh?  What am I doing out in this back hallway for.... Not my blackouts again!  Those really make it hard on a narrator.... I've only had a couple of pints of my favorite dirt cheap Tombstone Gin today.... that's pretty good for me.... Maybe not for someone else. I mean, its the boredom of the narrating business...  I probably should have kept my Humps, rather than pick up the Tombstone, like this old loser is suggesting!




New narrator in seersucker suit: 'Walt and Edna... For some reason, I'm having a little trouble actually seeing what's happening as I try to record all this hot action... Would you mind just occasionally telling me what you're seeing as the action progresses? I'm good on the audio end! Thanks SO much!!'
Edna & Walt's Philco Futura TV
'Did you hear me, Walt??? Fiddles is choking on the Orgasmically Grown Pineapple Harvest Cookie you just gave him!!! Haven't I told you 1,000 times before to break things up before feeding him??'

Walt is relaxing in his easy chair as his mate for many decades, Edna brings them a heaping plate of Orgasmically Grown Pineapple Milkshake cookies to share while they enjoy their leisure.... And she returns maybe a minute or two later with a piping hot megamug of nutritious, chocolatey Ovaltine.... And places that beside the no longer quite so heaping plate of Orgasmically Grown  Pineapple Milkshake cookies, Walt having eaten a few, and Edna also sees that their scrawny 25-year-old daschund is trying to gum one down himself -- in fact, his large Orgasmically Grown Pineapple Milkshake cookie looks to be like maybe halfway down the pet's throat, swallowed whole, the exact shape of the cookie bulging out right above the dog's adam's apple as well as the whole circumference around his neck,,,the improperly or unchewed cookie is far wider than the poor pet's throat passage!...

She notices the huge Orgasmically spawned  cookie is going up and down at a frantic pace, as Fiddles and his narrow throat, in a fight for their lives, are trying to 'pass' the imossibly big, pizza-diameter cookie down to his tummy where it will make him feel all warm and good... rather than brutally choke him to death as it is doing now!

Edna:  'Walt!!  My lands.... get on the case... Do something right now!!!   I think Fiddles may finally be passing on to a better world as I speak these very words, thanks to you brutally choking him to death by not breaking up the cookie for him, and then not monitoring his consumption of it either!!..... probably an extra large cookie you gave him knowing it would send him to his Final Reward -- so there will be more room in the weekly food budget for your beloved Buck-O's circular corn chips!!! 

'Yes, there he convulses within your very reach from your easy chair... Thus our Old Friend will pass  not do to his elevated age, but your woeful negligence...and perhaps ulterior motives, so as not to have share my love and my lap!!'

'Hmmm?'  Walt says, turning on his mental replay of what Edna has been foolishly jqbbering he slowly turns the large pages of the SKUNKVILLE CORN HOLLER AND CORN HXLER, still the paper of record for the once-rural town on the edge of the general region known as Central Ohio, which for some reason does not at all coincide with its actual geometric center, but perhaps more with its center of activity back a century or two ago.  Actually, looking at an accurate map of Ohio, which is hard to find, even on the Internet, which features the old distorted maps for the most part, Skunkville and the rest of so-called 'Central Ohio' are much closer to the Southeast extreme of Ohio than its middle, falling right on the old path of the Cumberweed Trail that was the Highway West back in the 18th & 19th centuries !

Before Edna can get Walt's attention by hitting him with her heavy iron cookie pot that even features a heavy padlock, Walt, finally mentally processing his backload of Edna directives and threats, leans forward surprisingly quickly and agilely and grabs Fiddles by the neck, and where the large cookie lump was moving up and down frantically, claustrophobically, panicked, trapped, between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, fearful of never being eaten or worse yet, being thrown up, a disgusting slimy mess.....trying to move on to the next station on Fiddles' digestive tract:  the exact perfect shape of the original cookie is now clearly visible (Walt, waving his arms as he dives into action to save his best male friend...assuming Fiddles is male, he hasn't checked in quite a while:  'Edna:  Quick!!  Get our Kodak Brownie Camera for some shots of this!  This might be our last chance for fame!!') due to Fiddles lifelong habit of swallowing things whole -- like the TV remote -- which is also easily seen now bobbing up and down in the mid-to-lower part of the doggy's throat area below the huge 'flying saucer'-like cookie, swallowed in a position parallel to the ground, the huge cookie making it look like Fiddles has swallowed a small dinner plate that is still parallel to the floor and then a TV remote below it (well, that's what the other probably actually is!).....

Walt mumbles:  'I'm pretty the old trooper can probably digest that remote... but I'm not so sure about Edna's cookie...She makes them so gaggingly rich..'

Walt bends down and seemingly in no time at all his aged but still-mighty meat-hands squeeze and crumble & crush the cookie and remote (with a bit more effort for the latter) within Fiddles' neck, which suddenly looks back to normal ... as Fiddles lays, paws up panting on the floor, growling angrily at Walt! 

N:  Thank goodness, look I don't even know these people, but everybody loves an old doggy....Any immediate sign of a blockage is completely gone...!! Except that Fiddles is now rolling around in discomfort -- since so much of the abruptly fragmented cookie and remote have suddenly moved on the Next Level down his digestion system, Station 4, Rahway and points South.

Edna screams:  'Now!  He needs something -- alot -- to drink right away! To wash down his 'meals'!!  Walt!  Hurry... If that dog passes on because of your negligee-ence, you will be dead within seconds thereafter!  I PROMISE!!'

Walt then reaches over and takes a big slurp of his cocoa, then forces open Fiddles foaming, slimy, slobbery mouth and does a kind of mouth to mouth forced rehydration to help save his old friend and arch rival for Edna's favor, Fiddles.... Walt alternates between big slurps and cocoa and mouth-to-mouth hosing down of Fiddles' entire digestive system!

As Walt has 'injects' a goodly doses of the cocoa with his mouth and tongue, he makes sure that little escapes the throat and places farther on down the line by holding the dog's trap absolutely shut and holding him by his collar up in the air, tail hanging towards the floor -- even when Fiddles' eyes appear to popping completely out of his head...

Walt:  'Whooops!  Well, that's not the first time... I think Fiddles' left eye is the glass one anyhow...  But Edna, would you mind tossing back the slimy, vomit-coated eye to me that just rolled under the couch by your right heel there?  Oh look, for goodness sake -- now you stepped on it... Here, give it back to me and let me see if I can get it back into shape!  I guess it's not made of glass after all!!'

Oh, incidentally, as I observed and reported this incident in my job here in Skunkville as the new narrator, Walt made me ABSOLUTELY PROMISE that I wouldn't ever interfere with the natural action in the household... Even if I perceived a life or death incident unfolding.... However, in that case, I am allowed to tap either or both of the old fogillies and give a short 5-10 word-spoken-quickly exortation or succinct piece of advice. 'But one false alarm and you'll be gone just like all of the people who have tried to follow our style!'


Fiddles now with his digestive track clean and green, sits snoring (or might that truly be a death rattle?) at the feet of Walt and Edna and this new intruder, the Narrator.

Edna:  'Buster, you're a pretty cute young fellow.... But around here, me and my GreatGrandpa narrate our own tails.  So I'd suggest that you take your leave now before we get tired of you... Let me warn you, we can be pretty ornery with a guest who thinks he's not one....'

There is a sound from the darkened hallway, and the new, changed, more social Uncle Leonard cautiously peeks around the corner and, nodding to the newcomer, indicates his agreement with and support of Edna's comment.  Uncle Leonard was recently discovered living in their little-used back hallway, where he has been staying since the New York Yankees defeated the Pittsburgh Pirates in the 1927 Baseball World Series.

Walt:  'Ah, yes... I believe I recall watching those '27 games on our Philco Futura TV... Babe Ruthless and Lew Gerrick and Mickey Mantrelle and Whitey's Fart were of course the big stars then for the Yankees, and Milt Allen was their announcer...Bulova Beer was a sponsor, I belieb!'




Penney's Classic $39.99 Stafford Blue Seerssucker Suit: What a bargain! What a suit!!
Check out this lovely, practical, durable K-Mart Forecast Merlot Barbados 4 Piece Luggage Set: just $79.99 at participating stores!!
Scruffy playing with his favorite dog Scruffy an hour ago
Mama Gooma: 'Mama Gooma predict meeting tonight have shocking surprise. Take 3 extra heart pill.'
Jenkins, deplaning: 'That crazy guy sitting next to me on the plane....Really messed up my head, rattled me....I hope the meeting with Mr. Scruffy still goes okay! Or my goose is grass'
Inside a more upscale J.C. Nickel's store...

So as the Fokker makes a nice, smooth landing on the rather short landing strip here at the Skunkville Intercountynental Airport, I comment to the man sitting in the seat next to me:  'Well, I guess we're here!'

'Yes, safe and sound!' he replies, seemingly anxious to deplane and forget about the whole event.

'Bad flight for you?'

As he struggles to pull together his belongings: 'Not one of the better ones... Especially with you talking in your sleep the whole time to some Devil Doll!'

'Oh, I guess I imagined that... But I could swear it really happened... Didn't you see that rusty little talking doll sitting on my lap,chatting, the richest being on this world?'

'According to whom?' he replies, ripping one of his bags out of my hand, which I see in fact was his... I was probably attracted to its genuine cowhide leather and superior overall look and feel..

He snarls at me:  'Do you know that you were 'accidentally' starting to walk off with a key component of my Longchamp's 4 X 4 Leather Luggage Set?'

'An honest mistake, I assure you... But then why do you have my lightweight K-Mart Forecast Merlot Barbados 4 Piece Luggage Set dangling from your arms and hands?  Do you know that set set me back $79.88... When I realized I needed to have some luggage to make my disguise as a top-flight business executive more plausible....'

'Top flight??  Since when??  And yes, I was appalled at the disrepute involved just from sitting next to you!!'  He says, pushing my cheap, lightweight/empty set of luggage back into my arms -- while he crudely rips his lovely, sturdy but lighweight  bags out of my reluctant paws.  Just holding them and breathing in the scent of their genuine Corinthian leather had actually been making me high on dreams of grandeur!

At this point, I couldn't help jabbing:  'Probably sitting next to a man in my $39.99 J.C. Penney Seersucker Suit didn't make you feel very comfortable either?'  As he gazes horrorstruck at my suit for the first time, having ignored me for the entire trip, facing the other way... Also, just then, a handsome, tanned, silvered-hair man, probably his boss, comes up behind him in the aisle.

My poor ex-seatmate suddenly begins to turn white as his shirt, as if he is about to sink towards the floor, melting from appallor multiplied by embarrassment plus abject fear of contagion or some other kind of sinister/indelible/eternal rub-off effect from being anywhere near moi et mon bagages!

 'Jenkins... Jenkins!!' cries this new exec, likely his boss, based on his sleek grey hair and seasoned confidence:  'Jenkins, you numbskull:  We have to keep moving... Didn't I tell you we're an hour late already for our meeting with Mr. Scruffy, one of the leading entrepreneurs of booming Skunkville... I mean his kind of canine-looking Brit, this 'Scruffy', is a good-humored, down-to-earth kind of ultra-rich, brilliant fellow...just the kind I like!  But he doesn't tolerate nonsense and irresponsbility!  I've heard he's even been known to bite or at least snap at people on occasion!!'

Just then, Scruffy himself patters onto the plane, accompanied by his paramour, the uncanny fortune teller of Skunkville, Momma Gooma:  'Hey, old chaps... We thought we'd climb on board ourselves and see what happened to you fine folks.... Can we help you with your luggage?  And Wilson, who is your other colleague in the Seersucker suit??  I thought just two of you were coming!  But wow!  What a classic piece of apparel he is wearing...I'm so glad that he's with you, whatever his role... I just bought three of those Suckers myself yesterday at J.C. Nickle's... It's J.C.Pennies' upscale store for avante garde cities like Skunkville and Manhattan!'





In part of tree near second story of house, male raccoon watches as pet female raccoon is undressed by Mom so she (the pet racoon) can be given her thorough weekly bath...'
AND JUST A FEW BLOCKS AWAY In a similar pose, a peeping tom humanoid watches -- hungrily studying the figure in the window just below him: a woman removing her clothes...!! Then, down to her undies, Olga Cradelle abruptly turns suddenly and SCREAMS: 'Harry you idiot -- we're married now -- can't you watch much better from in here???...And just then the bow breaks...And down it does fall, as down comes the whole thing, Harry Cradelle and all!
Meanwhile, the tree itself does it's own peeking at its climbers...Determined to give them a little shake if they start trying to actualize their devious plans with his help!!'
I enjoy my last few minutes of peace on this womblike, 'mother' Fokker, reading the articles that further delve into the story behind the three pictures at the top of this column in Peeper Prepper Magazine...Once I'm off this womblike 'motherlike' Fokker, I'm going to be on my own... Vulnerable to anonymous attacks coming from anywhere!
Supposedly, there's some 'big boy' who I'm going to meet at the historic jewel of Skunkville, the Hooters Restaurant... Apparently a very ordinary, if a bit pint-sized 21 year old lad: who is a real 'big boy' when it comes to throwing highly explosive and gas-producing foodbombs in order to protect his secret partner: me in this case!
Who are these guys.
Uh oh... There go a few of those ill-fated joyriders I saw in the airport bar before takeoff... Planning to 'bare-back' the Fokker all the way to Skunkville without a molecular fusion saddle!!!!

I am now relaxing, as best as I can under the circumstances being a nervous flier, as our pilot guides this beautiful Fokker into a gradual descent so as to land gently but with pizzazz at brand-spanking new Skunkville Grande Intercountynental Airport.  

To be specific, the airplane I am riding at the moment I describe is a Fokker F-27 turbo-prop.... The flying discomfort I feel has nothing to do with riding the fine German plane, and of course by 'riding' this plane....

Not to be obvious, but I mean riding inside the plane as a passenger.... By sayin 'riding', some less attentive or more modern, aviation-naive readers may visualize me somehow clinging for my life to the fusilage, or in a horseman saddle-like position, guy-on-top  the plane...

Reader misconceptions which I understand and do not demean -- having actually been such a free-rider myself.  

Yes, I have free-ridden, 'been on the outside looking in'.... On occasion when required by my Employer (a way of saving money or making my presence as a traveller on the plane secret...Or for reasons of my own -- riding outside, latched onto the plane's exterior against the tremendous force of the air flow, albeit you are normally travelling in  'thinner air'... 

Doing this kind of riding is aided slightly by thinner air at most flying altitudes, and thinner hair or even complete baldness, including some loss of headskin can be the end result if you don't keep your high-altitude light-metal, flyaway-resistant, comfort-heated cowboy hat on as tight and 'right' (re head position) as possible!!! 

On my many hair-raising (or hair-losing) occasions of riding a jet 'bareback', eupemistically a form of 'free 'seating' (rather than mundane 'in-plane', pampered, relaxing, comfortable, mainly risk-free -- but -- inside-rider tip-flash: watch that concession wagon and how it's being piloted!!)  When I don't have a cowboy style saddle available so that I can't 'ride on top', I can always use  my atomic-powered NutcrusherTM gripping gloves* to cling to the holes they make in the fusilage... But the arms can become quite tired and even embarassingly elongated after a lengthy flight.

Preferred by X-Riders are products like the  RidemFlyboyTM* Invisi-jet-saddle, which uses temporary molecular fusion of the rider to the plane rather than to a saddle that may be molecularly fused to the top of the plane and to which the High Rider is only attached by conventional means... Although the plane is typically far larger/wider than most any horse, excluding perhaps ones like the Trojan Horse,... So be prepared to ride low in the saddle, except when the plane is say taxiiing, cowboy, because you're of course trying to minimize a huge hundreds of MPH worth of air friction... Perhaps at least 100 times more onerous on the free-rider than shaving friction...

* Not currently available to most U.S. citizens with less than two consecutive years of military service, and two years of intense bareback plane-riding training

As a true-blooded American, you gotta stay low... Just like you used to have to stay low and ride fast when trying to get away from  an angry swarm of irate Native Americans (e.g., their homelands ripped out from under them) on horse or ponyback!. 

In short, that 400 MPH wind resistance can do more than ruffle your hair!!  I've even seen it behead a pencil-necked novice rider before he had even a minute of Skytime under his skybelt.  Also, straddling the fusilage of a large airplane, and to a lesser degree the medium-sized Fokker we've been talkin' about, can almost split a man in half, so consider the pros and cons of riding side-saddle, based on the flexibility of your groin...Dig into yogu and other weird but time-proven disciplines... This is no time to be too gungho about retaining your masculinity... that is, if you want to retain it!  

And is true that some riders understandably downgrade their ego and just use a plane-hugging approach, again aided by moecular fusion saddles that (hopefully, when working properly) temporarily fuse the rider to the outside of the plane.

Well, enough of that macho foderol.... Back to reality.... I notice that I become anxious just in the inevitable approach of arrival in supposedly booming Skunkville.... You may not realize that NarratCo, a company that supplies potential relief and even hope for troubled works of fictionalized reality, like this here 'bloated monstrosity' you are for some reason reading... Has already provided emergency professional relief or added help in a number of cases recently to poor Skunkville ...To keep this huge blockbuster of poorly thought-out, pointless BS but occasionally....????.....barely alive on life support.... 

Of course a handful drawn from large samples of unbiased people who are coerced by signicant sums to read a bit of Skunkville Saga  as far as they can go -- become lost in its endless depths... claiming it unbeatable!  Then comes hospitalization...For some, they never see the realworld again... 

Have you heard about the realworld magazine more than a half century ago that guaranteed to drive you Mad!!??

Yes, this blog has put amateurs, voyeurs,  provocateurs, and even racoonteurs at its creative helm too often...not solid word- or world-shapers..... nor inspired, reader-pleasing tale-tellers or titillators...No one can seem to get a grip, a handle on -- get their arms around  this 'bloated monstrosity' as described by my absentee employer....

But then again, I may have misunderstood what the  job of, or even the spelling of, a racoonteur was.  Even if they had meant raconteur, e.g., someone who likes to regale others with their personal collection of interesting little antidotes and family and friend tales, e.g., a la Skunkville -- Well, again, I could be wrong, unless the person has earned a doctorate in antidotes....But why would they do this kind of cheap, low-profile blogslave labor if they could be pulling in the big bucks in the medical field...

Anyway, if my track record holds true (5:23 in the 440 at Wet Weasel High School), why worry?  I'm fairly young, footloose and fancy-free (against my wishes and thus unfortunately: I'd much rather be tied down by a beautiful woman (or perhaps for you: guy, depending on gender/preference)).  But I can't dwell on these sad insights, which would put a gloomy tint on my racontales, or raconteurages, or whatever, if they really give me a pen that works!

The company that has just hired me for this raconteurial salvage job keeps sending me urgent messages on my Palm  Peanut that explain that a racoonteur is a minor, hardly recognized, thus unimportant raconteurial subgroup: i.e.,  one who enjoys recounting to friends and acquaintances engaging supposedly true or at least truth-based stories involving racoons as a key element... and that group makes up approximately only 0.0003% of all recorded or second-hand-reported raconteurial tales in a given year, at least within the U.S.A...  So market importance and annual $$ makes that a business hardly worth mentioning.  So, I won't: there: I'm done with whatever that distraction was!

And now I have to deal with this Fokker of a little plane as it passes through the turbulence that almost always surrounds Skunkville...some say of Devil Doll's doing.  But who's he? 

I'm one of but a few passengers (I don't even remember seeing much of the crew, either, but then again, I have been very distracted lately with...)....

Hmmm... I seem to be hearing a sinister but tinny little voice, but one that leaves a long echo in my brain, it's message penetrating deep, 'up to the hilt'.

It metalically grates:  ''Sorry, young travelling man of the world.  But did I hear you mention my name by any chance?'

I spend some time studying the weird little doll-like entitty, then ask: 'And whom, may I ask, sinister-looking little fellow:  Whom are you?'

DD, shaking his head:  'Ooo-oo Ooo-ooo (shaking his squeaking, rusty head, then turning the question back at me: Whom are you?'

Me:  'Well, first, whom the Fokker are you?'

DD:  'No, whom the Fooker are you, you, you, you, you, you, you... 







So, tiday I am hidin in the shower like that guy in that movie Psychoke, Author 'Itchcock, or whatever his Brit handell was...  I figger this is as good a place ass any to be spyin and recordin', per my job prescription.... But I dun bean in hereyet for a lung time with not even a gurly plip or plop t' report home to ya, whur I'm shure u been checkin the blugsite every hour o' two2 to see if any new posts hed cleared waivers and werhere furyu toreed... 'N speekin' o' Urcher Hitchincock.,,,mann o mann meballs are retchin' lack they're in the poison Ivy Leak, fer gootnus sakes.  Woot one of youse mates stop by the gurls half-caved in shxthole here in Scrxtxmviile (see, they dernsized the name) cxn't miss it, or me name aint Joe Skumwhole, the most dee-sgusting guy in NW SE Ohioey!!  I've been ye frendilily nurrator all obdese years, buts I hidd mine disgusterness behiney hole my floury King's siz cundom sack anglais usage.  But now'n as I retch old agedness, Me finds I no lunger kin kep up the charaped, the disguistse...Now me bestial beginnin's and heribadge is squeezin aut thru meese bunghole n'mauter how hurd I try to stoppen eet!!

Then suddenly I hear someother abominasaltion talkin' sickening gootly worts behinds me bunghole!

'Please, dear sir.  I came to your aid as soon as your story started appearing slowly, word by word, on the Skunkville Saga sight, one of my congregations favorite cyber-hangouts, although I must say, just because of material like you are currently spewing out and is somehow falling in their hands to reprint as it happens, the sober, hopeful, cleanliness = godliness -- the healthy faction of the local population may being mildly polluted by your vile ranting and raging and spewing... Excuse my negative description of your creative but still devilish prose of one of the most offensive kinds!'

'Here, minister, have a Hump with help us one more tiny step towards the Cauldroon of Hell that we devilishly seek!'

'Oooooh.  You have indeed tetched me in a tender, vulnerable place.... How I used to love to go outside at night after a day's hard labor -- before mine ministry -- and slowly enjoy one of these Camels.... Not to suggest any bestiality was occurring at any time!'

'So take one and enjoy, Man of the Cloth...  We all must have some sin, or else we we would risk outdoing or at least metching god hemself...Of whom I no longer have any valu of any worth after all of my years of sinking deeper and deeper into filth and degradtion...'

'And that's where you would have me follow you, my friend?  To what advantage for us or anyone esle??'

That made me think in me foggy mind for a moment -- for far longer than that, actually, I think....Because this man was still basically healthy of mind and body, not nearly as deep into depravity and evil thoughts and passions as I was.  Truly, the deevel himself was now onboard me, had taken a First Class seat, and would soon make a move to highjack the plane and take me and all my evil, unholy brethern to some 'Better' (More Horrid/Deparved/Evil Place with him...  No way we could let that happen!'

'Is this blog now turning inta sum kinduh religious programming?' A thurd voice asked us, from not far away.

'WHO ARE YE?'  we both asked in unison, like angels singing, my scummish rattle providing the nasty basso to the good fellow's alto.


'But can you be basically good, god-fearin', people-lovin' without distancin' yerselvers some way from Mankind, who carry the disease of evil and hatred?' I ask my new friend.'




Diagram of an explosion... Thank goodness, there were no rabbits, as far as we know, involved in the girls' home explosion!
Visitors shuffle down the downstairs hallway at Louis XXIV's original Castle Versailles. 'Is there a bathroom on this floor? I really needs to take er good ol' hearty American dump!!' 'Where can I hang my overcoat and umbreller, Miss Frenchie?'
Visitor to Jill & Linda's being escorted into the living room from the front door: 'Yes, now you mention it, your hallway does kinder remind me of Versales!'
Earnes: 'Halllpp!! Leenda....Jeeel!!! Earnes squizzed by allavator durr!!'
Louis XIVth: 'Yes, my place ees tres nicerino... Mais also Jeel et Leenda habla nice padaroonski!.'
'Hey, Louie 7+7: Any o' YER oldies gone Platinum lak mine?!?

As I am sure practically everyone in the civilized world by now has at least heard about the tense showdown that is occurring as we speak between the Fixit Man, or Janitor, or Handyman of the La Maison de Rendevous (who robbed the La Maison community grill recently since he hasn't gotten a raise in six years?) Louis XIVth style townhomes and apartments in the least desirable part of Skunkville: Lower Skunkville, adjacent to the huge Skunkville Dump, which receives most of the waste that's worth its weight in uselessness and disgustingness in the most north-western sector of the southeast quadrant of Ohio.

Recently, Linda and Jill, the two current heroines of the 1.5 million word magnum poopus known as The Skunkville Saga -- read (at least occasionally) by tens of thousands of humans and humanoids (the next evolutionary step dpwn from humans) around the world -- have experienced a bizarre series of dimensional shifts and quivers. 

These signs of dimensional inconsistency or flat-out breakdown  began when chubby, 150+ lb (don't tell her we gave a concrete nimber like that, but my brother happened in the other day when she was stepping off the bathroom scale, which they keep by the front door... anyhow, this whole mess all started apparently due to Linda's frantic cheerleader-like jumping on their  heavily used large living room 'party headquarters' sofabed, pretty close to the only functional, semi-trustworthy piece of furniture in their towne home... 

Anyhow, this central mainstay of their furniture, like the furnitureal nucleus around which the rest of their apartment and occupants/guests revolves,  a functional/social necessity without which their entire social life would collapse....  Well, it experienced the painful breaking of its left rear leg (and you know what happens when a horse or a living room central couch breaks it's leg) -- the jig, the gig is pretty much up then....

And this crushing tragedy all a result of Linda's wild heel-kicking-in-the-air antics, done on the partier-packed couch no less -- their huge throng of 100%-uninvited ('I came because Lydia came and then called me on her cell with this address saying: You've just to see this shxthxle and the weirdos here at least once before you pass on to a much better world!!') people being scattered widely from the wildcat explosion/implosion/disintegrossion.

Visitors at the critical Ground Zero were strewn about the coach and its powerful gravitational pull...sitting a) on,  in front of, b) leaning against, c) in behind, leaning against, d-e) on either end, leaning against (f) this central mainstay when all heck come flying through the 'port of anguish' opened by Linda's high-risk heavyweight cheerantics.

All passengers, including those on the fringe of the 'passenger zone' were thrown around and displaced in one way or another (including people disappearing, still not found, though a thorough headcount was taken in the minutes before and after the anonymous disaster struck -- the before and after counts for the pizza delivery service that Jill was talking with at the moment of the disaster  -- i.e., the dimensional shift, if I haven't mentioned that strange event yet... I'm still pretty fxcked up mineself, if you must know...but probably no more than before it happened)....Most of my and the other 'passengers' on the Louis XIVth 'starship' suffering minor physical injuries and using their cell phones to call their crack (head?) doctors, chiropractors, or personal injury lawyers...

Though not in any case was it indicated by any member Louis XIVth property  management or any other other shady-type hangers-on that are seen around the rental/purchase office here that they believed or had seen any compelling evidence of any personal injury -- yes, a few terrible cases of jock itch and chronic diarrhea syndrome or death-breath.....

Look, we'd all like to think of this horrible use of Louis IVth's name as an upscale, happenin' place... But we know better.

Unless you count the regular Louis IVth hanger-on and entrepenter Hot Bob has claimed through his lawyer that his dxxkhead was bent vis a vis its alignment re its 'treetrunk-like thick stem' and was now out of whack along with the rest of his 'personal joy unit').  But we have reputable female witnesses who claim to have seen his 'Tiny Tim' and it seemed to be in perfect working order.

To add further confusion, unless I have already mentioned this above -- would you mind checking, beloved reader, and then leaving a comment with your findings? -- A small bevy of new people appeared of  apparent diverse origin and nature.  Their presence on the accident scene in the chaos and dust and chaos -- excuse me, as my boss just said, in the party scene in the trivial disorder and cheery departure of the party's low-lifes to their various personal ratholes, probably sighing with a sense of loss from having to leave the beautiful, safe, welcoming, airy, refined Louis XIV Chateau de Grand Filet Mignon.....

For instance, there is our earnest young, new foreigner friend Earnest, and a man who a) claims earnestly to be Earnest, but is a domestic U.S. hunk b) rather than a geek like 'Earnes', whom 'Earnes' claims he hired to stand in for him to 'wow' Linda, then 'make the switch' gradually to him, because she was about as bright as an old cardtable with a missing leg...(but he equivocates:) mebbe, Earnes not 100 cents sureful....mebbe, 73 censure.  Cod b-amour, cod b-lass.'

Also, to further complicate or clarify things, the Narrator, who is the moi who is writing this, now a high-paid executive of La Grand Maison Duh Louie 14th < I reveal for the first time, in a real shocker!>, have been at the scene of this so-called dimensional dislocation, and in fact arrived here several days before the supposed mind-bending/boggling turmoil, being paid by an unknown party (not another party like this mess, but an individual person hopefully with BIG BIG bucks who backs up his promises, not some fake billionaire cheat who I will then have to track down and capture, dead or alive, to hand over to the proper authorities.)  For days I the Narrator hid in the back room while a handful of these lame-o homeless go-nowheres who screwed around watching TV and ordering pizzas at Jill and Linda's unkempt appartment, me recording every worthless, inane nuance of what was happening, revealing their sleazy, hopeless lifestyles and trying to interpret and explain the significance, if any of these miscreants, these people who appear to be a new de-evolution of man, as DEVO all taught us about back in the 1970's or whenever: a while ago.....more or less nothing happening: not even a fist fight or someone being sexually acosted by someone else -- or even by themselves....

And also recording in words and drawings as best I could the incredibly boring, arid, pointless, dumb, nerdy '(in-)action' for prostaterity.  

Finally, I became so sick of it this event that i just 'joined the (in-)action', setting my sophisticated 4-dimensional recording system to capture every minutia of it, while I started off my FTF interaction with these losers by offering each of them a hot, smokin' Hump...even the guys, even the powerful robot/android (NBC2 or something like that) who was watching over these complete losers for some reason....  He said.  'NO.  NB6.  NO HUMP.  NO DUMP.  NO SMOKE.  NB6 SAVE SELF.  TILL RIGHT.  FE.  MALE ROBOT. UNIT. COME ALONG.'

Several of the humans here were insulted or horrifed with my insistence that they have a Hump with me to 'light up their life'... Until I finally got it through some/most of their thick/concretin-like heads that I was simply offering them a great, old, vintage Camelion cigarette to choke on and catch cancer, good for acting real cool and tough and asthmatic as you went down the toobs.  Several of them did join me then, sharing a red hot Hump with me....Meaning I had to do this damage to myself as well.... most of them wisely giving the Camel a blow job... By that, I mean, not inhaling, but just enjoying the rich delicious taste of  its fine Turkish tobaccos... then blowing as much of it out of their mouths and bodies as they could so very little went down their throat, into their lungs or stomachs or johnsons or jacksons... But despite these precautions, a number of those blow-job-approach people/smokers threw up anyway, not having smoked ever or in a long time.  Some threatened to sew me for 'Humping them almost to death!' but I don't think the fabric of their story will hold up to a quart of law...even a pint!!

But enough of this useless background -- hopefully you skipped past it to here, where I am right now, this moment, realtime.  Just me and yous. 

Because the latest twist in the tail has really left some people barking...

You see, given the disheveled condition of their town home unit, Louie the 14th (a guy named Lou Blunt, the 14th owner of this firetrap of a rundown place to supposedly (NOT!) live like a 'king' or 'queen', to interrupt the trashy, incoherent, repulsive, depressing 'story' that has been running for 3+ years and 1.5 million words and a) explain everything in a way that people can understand, even if they're perfectly normal and b) have it somehow be seen as having some tenuous, wavering oblique redeeming social/entertainment/relaxation value after it has been  explained properly...

I told L-14 I thought this was an impossibility, but he just shook his head kindly and said nicely:  'Just use yer head... You'll figger out a way if'en anyone kin!'.

'But Mr. The 14th, why would you care one way or t'other about whether this story has any possible value, when it's clear to even a numbskull who reads any given sentence or worse yet a page or two of it that it's worthless nonsense, intended to trap decent people into wasting their time and destroying their minds -- just like TV was designed when it came out?'

14th, cloyingly:  'Try it... just mebbe you'll like it...Keep an open mind...and a closed fly!'

Me:  'Fat chance.....'

14th, rising from his chair:  'Meeting over... get the hxxk out of whatever you like...the check will be in the male...'

Me:  'Which male?  You??'

14:  'U.S. Male...'

Me:  'Hey, where did that devil go??'

Anyhow, I just saw 'the Girls' and I wanted to give you an update re Linda and Fixit Guy's sudden enamorization with her.... and then geeky from-parts-unknown 'Earnes' intervention in this tense, possibilty-drenched situation.

So now I'll move onto that interesting, more wartwhile toupic, sorry for dragging out the other Linda/Couch saga out so long.  So, we'll now officially say 'So Long!' to that story and move into the new waste of everyone's time, me especially.





Fed Chief Barry Behnke views Linda & Jill's damaged apartment and gives a smile and a thumbs up: 'We'll have this place looking even better than it looked BEFORE the incident in less than one week, or my name isn't Barry Behnke! '
Linda & Jill are now living in the Workout Room of the Towne Home complex, for which La Maison is kindly charging them just half the actual hourly rental fee for the 'prestigious, well-equipped facililty relied upon by many of Skunkville's most famed athletes!!'
Fixit man: 'Do you girls mind if I intrude to do my weekly maintenance of all the state-of-the-art equipment? You know, I used to be a maintenance man at the prestigious Scruffiplex in chic downtown Skunkville, right there on the harbor that leads out to the little known Intercontinental Ocean... which snakes its expert surfer broad way through all seven continents plus Mars and Inner Earth, where the Molepeople live in a Paradise after they were revilved for centuries by the Surface Fools, which is what they call us for continually exposing ourselves to the Death Ray that is the SUN!!'
' Earnes now bizmess man...Excited....Find gurls. Show gurl new luuk...!'

Linda, huffing and puffing as she laboriously pedals away on the Exercise Room's one exercise bike, which seems to have some malfunction that causes it to make a harrowing, loud grinding/screeching sound as Linda pushes ahead as best she can...'Pant!! Pant!! Pant!  I wish I PANT!! were panting PANT!! about some PANT!! hunky PANT!! guy and not PANT!! beca... PANT!! ..use of this PANT!! fxxk- PANT!! -in bro- PANT!! ken ma- PANT!! chi PANT!! ne....!!!'

La Maison's Fixit Man happens in just this moment, always cruising the halls of La Maison, looking for young women in skimpy wear... who might want to join him on one of his many breaks. 

'Whoa, big mama!!  Do you need Daddy Fixit to help you, a lovely DDDDamsel in distress?!?'

Linda: 'PANT!! PANT!! PANT!! 


Fixit turns to the kaleidoscopic Jill, who is in her 'white person' mode today, thereby reducing her appeal to Fixit relative to her more exotic, edgy black person and yellow person looks.

Jill:  'Disappointed, Fixie?  Don't worry, whatever I am tomorrow, it will be different than today...'

Fixit, rubbing his hands together... is that actually a tiny rivulet of drool leaking out of the left side of his mouth??  'Like three women for the price of one.....OOOOOOOOWWWEEEEEEE!!!' Fixit cries, impressively jumping and clicking his heels.

'That nothing, mr. janitor dxckhead,' exclaims another voice from behind.  Man with foreign look/accent who jump twice high, click heel twice hard, then ruin bit wid lowd faaart mebbe forced out by hard landing.

Fixit, slapping his knees, roaring in laughter at foreigner from place Unknown call self Earnes:  'What lame jxrkovvs you furrunners are...'

Earnes jumps up, angry, put up fist:  'Earnes no jerkovv.  Earnes need no jerkovv.  Earnes use buteful soff slippermmy reskeptickles for what yu need do as jerkskoff!!'

Linda, concerned about the escalation of insults and threats and obscene images, but as excited as can be that these ultraweirdo hunkos are fighting over her and probably Jeel too, pulls her stationary bike over to the sight of the roach... the roach she now realizes is still alive and ever-so-slowly crawling up the cycle toward her, probably similar in spirit to these guys who are showing interest in her for some unknown motive... She laboriously climbs off the machine, careful not to crush 'Hal Rouch' as she has named him, and tired from all her showoff exercise for which she will probably pay for weeks or years...  Thousands of dollars of chiropractor visits... Then again, that handsome young chirocrackter she sees makes it almost...

Jill has already jumped between the two glaring men, turning into her black self as she does so: 

'You boys need to chill ASAP!'

She commands with such assurance that the two men seem to instantly relax...the tension leaving their faces, bodies, replaced by relaxation and almost like inspiration from some new source of knowledge.

They move towards each other simultaneously, arms out for a big hug...which they do with passion!

Earnes whisper:  'Which xxxx do you want, man?'

Fixit shrugs:  'Yo go 1st, Bro... It's way too close for me to call!'

But Jill's ears are sharp enough to hear this interplay, and starts to say: 'Who says we're up for grabs' but only gets the 'Who says' out before Linda's big beefy hand has cut her off, and Linda whispers:  ;I SAY!!'




Jill, who has found lately that she is apt to be white one day and black the next, thinking: 'You know, at least on my white days, I sure can get to thinking about that moderator who keeps offering me a Hump!'
Narrator: 'Why did she say I was 'moderator'? Doesn't she know the difference between a 'narrator and a 'moderator'? She may desperately crave a Hump from moi, but I'm not so sure anymore that I'm going to provide it!... just like that, lit and all!''
Towne House Managing Owner, closely tied of course to Organized Crime: 'Are you sure you two hot young dishes can really provide satisfaction to our owners in this job?'
Linda: 'How do you define 'sato-facshun, sirly?'
As shown in this accurate photo of the universe, all of known reality is in a state of chaotic vibration. Getting into the 'beat' of the Cosmic Insanity is what we call Sanity. Although some wise men call it Necessary Insanity, a way of tuning away from, on a tenuous moment to moment basis, these chaotic universal vibrations.
Fixit Man has arrived: 'Okay, everyone calm down. This is just a minor, momentary problem we're having with the stability of the entire complex... Listen: It has nothing to do with that hot fat blonde doing cheers on your couch and knocking one of its legs off...'
'Yeah! I knew it was caused by the gout water guy carelessly splashing his excess gout water around... I mean, why would he come to a party with something like that??'
Fixit man: 'Wrong!! Throw that gout water theory out the friggin' winder, please, folks. You guys are cruel, you know, casting blame on one another without knowing shxt about Shxnxla!'
'Hey... But how come everybody's afraid to talk about the Duck Dynasty guy who showed up just when things went really downhill...'
Narrator: 'As I keep tellin' you guys... If you -- girls first of course -- just let me give you a Hump...i.e., enjoy a Hump with me... Everything would clear right up...Like the desert sky!!'
'Jest one mor hump befores I go over the big hump in the sky....I winder if these humps had anything to do with mine early departure??'

It's a whole different world now for our dear old friends (who are still young and nubile, of course) Jill and Linda now that their shabby towne house complex, La Grande Maison de Louis XIV, has become a bewildering shadow zone between dimensions, ever since lusciously endowed but nonetheless rather big Linda, Jill's roomate ever since they were kicked out of high school at age 15, and their parents refused to accept them back 'in the fold' given their ejection..anyhow, as I was trying to say, their apartment has become a bewildering shadow zone between dimensions ever since Linda was doing wild cheerleader cheers, including leaping high into the air and kicking her feet back on their collapsable double bed luxury couch and her violent, daredevilish cheerleading caused the back rear leg of the couch to become painfully sore and eventually suffer from entropy and fall clean off, destabilizing the couch and making sitting on it more like riding a distressed, crippled ship riding crazily on roiling, boiling, coiling, toiling, swoiling, rolling, stormy seas, with a huge overload of diverse foreign-speaking, but none the same language as any other, couch passengers, many drop-in's whom no one still in their apartment claim to have ever even met....  Listen, if you've ever been to a multi-day booze and drug party held in a stuffy, confined area that has attracted some highly diverse and at least semi-deranged people... You know how out of touch even the sanest of party visitors can get.  The answer always, of course, is to try to rise if possible above the hopelessly confused group grope twistarama and, if you can keep your sea legs about you, or are able to crawl accurately in a prescribed direction across the floor and safely elude all its mazes and objects, alive and dead, including devil spawn such as the grasping, strong, screaming, writhing, barfing people who were too fxcked up to hold a position on the Party Couch, the only real In-Crowd hangout at such an event... If it can even be called an event, since no one who was there is able to remember anything that even partly matches anyone else's story afterwards, and usually finds that they weren't even there at any time!  Some of this may seem cornfusing, but that is what happens when you get down to the nitty gritty of reality....ask any scientist worth his Morton's...

Then you throw in Linda's cheering and the loss of stability and integrity of the couch, turning it into like a lifeboat filled with panicky passengers, totally freaked, who believe they must be elsewhere, and twenty foot 'reality waves'... or, just as bad, the counter-rhythmic rocking of a destabilized giant hippy live-in couch whose entire physical and psychosocial stability has been thrown to the four winds when Linda's cheers cause the left back side of the couch to collapse, creating a multi-angle, multi-phased psychodelic multi-wobble....which eventually can encompass as many as several hundred strong and variant wobbles, also exacerbated, or jerked out of whack by the cross-energy and interaction between the multi-phasic couch wobble and the multi-person, non-phasic, independent, constantly changing/flowing/evolving people wobbling....

Yes, you're absolutely right, sir.  It's better just to completely stop thinking about it, to go with the the blind, long-shot mathematically invalid, impossible thought that 'somehow it will sort itself out', 'somewhow a local/temporary equilibrium will be reached of we stop fighting and try as hard as we can to just 'go with the flow', i.e., strengthen the base-line or average symptoms of the chaos and stopping adding in new chaotic themes one after the other based on our own random, unsynchronized reactions to the lack of harmony, unity, sanity.... Each must go into their own Gentle Quiet Zone and Turn All Outcomes Over to the Universal Balance Beam.

What a start for two 18 year old girls (Jill and Linda) in what was then a more seedy, rundown Skunkville back in the ancient late 20th century, with plenty of 'mean streets' and danger for vulnerable, protectorless girls!  They originally managed to get a unit in the new Towne House complex by lying about their ages and offering to be the cleaning women for all the 28 units in the La Grande Maison de Louis XIV development in return for free rent.

Of course, I don't know why I'm saying this, since, good-natured and well-intentioned they may be, their accidental marriage to the same man, who claimed he was an identical twin...and was suspiciously unable to make the other twin's wedding....or ever be in the same run with other groom at any time... Should have been a sure sign that this building complex was doomed.



Earnest Search for Leenda

Dr. Derrierre: 'I must admit, girls. I am not only an acu-place-kicking specialist for hemorrhoids, breast perfecting, migraine headache treatment, gout, and wart removal, but also a Russian scientist who may be a double-agent... But I'm not sure which side I'm working for...maybe both...maybe neither... maybe I'm just having severe paranoid delusions mixed with delusions of grandeur and midlife crisis!'
Earnest: 'Why haven't you asked me, Doctor? I know the answers to all those questions. I am the counter-agent assigned to foil you, whichever side you're working on!'
Linda, sighing: 'As usual. My lovelife turns out to be imaginary.'
Earnest Makeover: 'For just this once, Linda, you are wrong. Was it not me -- not that geek across from me -- who had his head up inside your sweater on that wondrous day??'
Linda's roomate Jill, who has recently found she is of African-American heritage: 'He's got you there, Lin!'
Narrator: 'No, guys and girls... No reason to scream or call the police!!. I just wondered, with all that seems to be going down as I watch and record it (if only they would give me a tape recorder!) from my vantage point, near the doorway, or behind the scant furniture of this shxthole... I wondered if any of you would like to join me in a quick Hump!!'
'If this blaaggh is being sponsored all or in part in some way by a tobacco company, this is my last appearance here. There are plenty of other story-blogs like this one that could really use my charismatic, reader-attracting presence!'
Earnest2? 'True Earnes nowel chinslaws feek Ernesh onto sallads!'
Uh oh.... Which one should I believe?

So, if you wouldn't mind reading the sidebar with all the pictures and captions first, then I will be glad to answer any questions you readers have about what's going on.... We know when a story has become 1,462,891 words long, stretched across 3+ years of posts amounting to 991 gradually doled-out episodes, one's recall of all the details of the plot or even the basic purpose of the elongated tale may become a bit vague. 

I've been hired as an in-between the unknown writer of this blog, who, when we meet, 'it' (the writer of unknown species and gender) is behind a locked door in a vault-like structure, with a tiny opening allowing us to pass sound waves back and forth to each other, thereby representing a very impersonal kind of communication.

Plus, I have been informed by a highly credible source that the voice I speak to when I go there, using the crack in the locked door, is NOT the author anyhow, but someone representing him...that the reclusive author also has a middle-man between himself and the person to whom I talk -- or perhaps even a sequence of two or three vaguely linked middlemen communicating between him and the voice which speaks to me through one of those microphones that disguises his or her voice... Frankly, my name is George... No, sorry, but Siriusly, I think XM is much better even without Howard Stern.

Okay, that foderol was necessary for technical reasons, to test the system and see whether my messages are actually sinking into the right -- never the left! -- part of your cereberal cotex.

But I digress, obviously...

Let me now really roll up my sleeve, which I like to force my head through, even tho it ruins the shirt for normal wear, and GDTB. 

You know, forget about me relating the story succinctly to you.  Instead, I have selected excerpts from the complete text of this chapter to bring you down to speed.... Before, you were simply going too fast...

Excerpt #1

I Earnes get tremendous surge of power through my body just by pulling the cord and starting powerful chainsaw!!  You know from looking at my pictures that I am quite geekly, maybe about same size and strength as the original 98 pound weaklink who has sand thrown in face on beech as he walks by with beautiful friend like my bosomy bud-for-life Leenda.  Then the muscle men grab Leenda and begin to discuss possible rape of her in their cabana.  But they not know that Leenda a customer of Joe Bob Atlas, and soon they flying in the air out of tent as we also hear Leenda busty deep boobie/belly (boobies bouncink on belly) laugh echoing down the beachfront as everyone turn and look -- then look to the sky as if coming from there as it echo off into space....never to be heard that way again.


Excerpt #2

Earnes peek in muscleman tent which now half fallen down and dark. 

'Leenda... Leenda.... Etes-vous la?

'Yes, Earnes.  You can come in now.  I made it safe for you by expelling the baddies and sending them far away, where they will be re-habbed to act more responsible and with more caring in the future.'

Earnes (me) enter. 'Wow, Leenda!  What a mess!  Are yuo sure guy who no longer here are alright?  Is that someone spleen on floor??'

Leenda:  'Why worry your cute little head about that, my love?  I am sure that they will eventually be okay... maybe even better than they are now -- not just physically, but better human beings!'

Earnes go over and seet on Leenda lap.  'Would you ever do that to Earnes... If he did bad thing??'

Leenda: 'I know Earnes, and he would never do bad thing like the bad of those guys.  Maybe pick up a penny that he found in the street... But then he start asking pedestrians if they dropped it one by one.  But they all say no..... Now, with $, usually maybe feefth person say yes, grab it with quick thank, and jam in pocket, leaving quickly.'

Earnes:  'Leenda,  Earnes worry about you.... You talking like Earnes now!!  Deed you falls on yer head when fighting bad guys??'

Leenda, hugging Earnes as he sits on her lap, crushing his skinny body to her, smothering him now and then with reassuring keeses.

Suddenly, a light goes off in Earnes' head:  'Ma Ma... Ma Ma!  Ma Ma!!!  Where have you been all these long lonerly years?'

Leenda:  'There, there, Earnes.... We are reunited.  Forget the time we apart.  Remember the good old time, and prepare for good new time, where Earnes will never be separated from Momma -- I mean Leender..ever again.

Earnes, overjoyed, buries himself in Momma's chest.  'Let's stay jest like this forebber!!!'

NB6 POKE HEAD IN TENT:  'EVERY       THING.   O.K.                IN  HERE?'

Linda gives ever-so-trusty NB6 a big thumbs-up.  Then NB6 STARE EARNES.

Earnes, a great confluence of thoughts and emotions nearly overwhelming him, nearly driving him into unsciousness.... Finally, shakily, gives NB6 a split-second-pea thumb up.


There is a long silence.

NB6:  'GENE.  YOU.  LIKE THIS ONE.  A LOT.   DID'  NT.  U??'

«April 2014»

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