::: Morning Briefing :::
So there we were, sitting on a toilet in the Saint Die-Ego City College
Learning Resource Centre listening to the liquified fecal waste
spraying out into the welcoming waters below and just generally cursing
that g*ddam Slave-ation Army Sub-Standard food which -- on more than
one occasion -- has wreaked havoc with our generally sturdy and robust
gastro-intestinal tract, when into our fine, caerulean noggins floated
the exceptionally odd phrase:
H O L Y T O L E D O , B A T M A N !
And we, of course being the Questioners of All Things we are, wondered
to ourselves, "Now what in the h*ll is so g*ddam Holy about Toledo, fer
crise freakin' sakes?! I mean, isn't it just some punk-*ss city in
Ohio? What the H*LL is so Holy about Ohio?! Huh?!?
ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME, HERE?
Then, a song by SuperTramp(tm) floated into our brain which stated
(rhetorically, mind you):
Well, some they do and some they don't
And some you just can't tell.
Some they will and some they won't
And some it's just as well.
And we paused for a moment of silent reflection and admiration
regarding such a pristine piece of purposely MIZ-leading (Remember: not
Miss-leading as we are always en guarde to avoid angering any residual
operatives hailing from any Lodge of dick-hating femi-nazis) prose.
As always, AMBIGUITY is the key.
Plausible deniability.
Know wha' 'eye-em saaayin'?
"I'm sorry, but we can neither confirm nor deny any such allegations at
the present tyme. BUT ... if such allegations did not presently exist,
we would have to invent them."
Do you OVER-stand all of these things?
(Remember, overstanding is like understanding ... only much moreso.)
Anyways, then another song just floated into our heads, evidently
hailing initially from somewhere about 9,490 Mhz. on the Frequency
Modulated bandwidth (Remember: at 94.9 fm, "It's About the Music.").
This snippet came from a new one by a group calling themselves "Death
Cab for Cutie:"
Well, I can't remember it verbatim right now because I can't seem to
sync-up with the tune right now -- in retrospect -- but it's something
about ... "A Melody, softly soaring into my Atmosphere."
And that reminded me of this rilly hot girl-friend I had back in High
School in 1972 named Melody -- a most delightful blonde with
medium-sized, firm, supple breasts (or "breast-tiz-iz," as my oldest
daughter used to call 'em), kick-ass legs and an ass to absolutely die
for.
It's a cool song, alrighty, and evidently just what we needed to get
our myndes off not only that g*ddam Sub-Standard Salvation Army food --
which we're STILL suffering through; some 3 FULL DAYS later! -- but
also off those twisted freakin' allegations that there is, in fact,
anything even REMOTELY holy about ANYthing in Ohio, let alone one of
it's silly little cities and stuff.
Hmmm ... I didn't rilly notice 'till I wrote it down just now that the
cryptic phrase, "A Melody, softly soaring into my Atmosphere" had only
the following synchronistically capitalised words:
"A, Melody, Atmosphere."
Which, when the superfluous lower-case squiggly line thingies are
obviously extricated leaves:
"A, M, A."
Which, when the obviously out-of-place commas are replaced by periods
(Note: NOT Menstrual Periods!) renders the following solution to the
enigmatic puzzle spread out so tantalisingly before us:
"A.M.A."
And those are the barberous cretins and butchers which have slapped the
label "schizoaffective disorder" smack dab onto the very myddle of our
foreheads!
Those B*STARDS!
I HATE THOSE FILTHY B*STARDS!!
I mean, they just sit there all smug and sh*t, glaring out
deprecatingly over the tops of their coke-bottle-bottomed glasses at
you; their high, balding foreheads glistening with the sheen of
youthful arrogant ignorance in the hideously twisted light of
alienatingly artificial and utterly bourgeois fluorescent lights which
litter their synthetic office ceilings like so many callously wadded-up
and tossed aside propagandistic flyers touting us all with such
disdainfully pleading yet oh-so-compelling mottoes as, "Try this -- it
WORKS!"
And THEN it is that they finally "get down to it."
Yup ... THAT is when they finally pop the Big Question:
Dr. Fraud: "Do you 'hear voices' ... uhhh ... (ahem [clears throat for
added demeaning emphasis]), Doctor Human?"
Dr. Human: "Why yes, doctor, I hear yours perfectly right now."
[Dr. Fraud now attempts to chortle nervously to assuage growing concern
that this may be a possible "5150" -- dangerous to both self and others
... still, his abhorrent physiology betrays his shallow degree of both
Initiation and testicular tenacity; delicate beads of sweat begin
appearing on that disgustingly pale and prurient,
patterned-baldness-afflicted high forehead of his.]
Dr. Fraud: "Do you 'hear voices' that other people don't hear?"
Dr. Human: "Why no, doctor, that would seem to indicate to me an odd
physiological hearing dysfunction on my part, don't you think?"
[Dr. Fraud then falls prey to the clearly superlative conversational
strategy often employed by Dr. Human to "test" the current subject
under his scrutinous supervision, nodding his feeble head in an
essentially horizontal motion; THINKING he was vetoing my armchair
diagnosis with his smug little "no" shaking of the head ... but in
reality COMPLETELY BETRAYING THE *FACT* (!) THAT HE SIMPLY DOES NOT
THINK AT ALL!]
I asked him PLAINLY, "Don't you think?"
And he said NO!
What a dipsh*t!
[Dialogue continues]
Dr. Human: "Here, let me help you, doctor," Dr. Human now -- having
COMPLETELY turned the tables on his hapless prey; that quivering,
sweaty, ARTIFICIALLY LIT mass of recondite feces before him; the pious
white lab-coat and obligatory stethoscope dangling from his putrid,
wrinkly neck showing with increasing clarity TO ALL WHO YET HAVE EYES
TO PSEE (!) the alarmingly vacuous emptiness in his spell-bound,
BRAIN-washed gaze, "I think what you MEANT to ask me was, 'Are you in
relatively consistent telepathic rapport with other-dimensional
discarnate intelligences often far wiser than we?'"
Dr. Human: "The answer, my ... uhhh ... (ahem [clears throat for added
demeaning emphasis]) esteemed colleague is not just yes, but F*CK YES!"
[subtext: And if you're not, yer RILLY missin' out.]
Alas, all our concerted efforts at attempting to further illuminate our
poor, brain-dead, slumberingly somnambulent brother were evidently
futile, for he simply squinted his beady eyes at us in a pathetic
attempt to redeem himself from the bueraucratic mire into which he sank
deeper by each and every moment, as he took his freshly sharpened
Number Two Pencil and placed a distinct (yet almost imperceptibly
trembling) check-mark in the "Hears Voices" checkbox on the form.
Well, that was IT!
It was ON, now, by G*d!
And it was ALL *HIS* g*ddam fault!
We suddenly and unexpectantly thrust our chair back, stood up FAR too
quickly, slammed our fist down on his desk, then, placing one finger
over our right nostril (like the Right Eye of Horus Mystery School hath
taught us to do), let out a quick yet decisive blast of air straight
through the left nostril passage; extricating an alarmingly large,
gooey mass of bubbly greenish and white mucous from the nostril
straight onto that filthy and blasphemous DSM/MMPI questionaire he
thought so g*ddam highly of!
"THERE! That'll show *HIM* not to f*ck with US, g*ddammit!" we
reasoned to ourselves as we stormed out of his paltry and pathetic
little office, slamming the door behind us with such vehemence and
passion that more than a few pictures came crashing down from the
surrounding walls and onto the filthy floor of that g*ddam place ...
WHERE THEY F*CKING BELONG, G*DDAMIT!"
So, anyways, with all of the above in mynde, we ... uhh ... "completed
the paperwork" related to our earlier tasking and went over to this
very workstation here and pounded out this morning's briefing, for your
eyes alone, my Brethren.
ATTENTION!
Be advised that the next briefing will commence at nineteen-hundred
hours sharp.
Attendance is mandatory.
And don't forget ... ALL of this WILL BE ON THE TEST!
Dis-MIZ-zed.
-Brother Blue, B:.B:.
Absent-Mynded Berkely Professor Extraordinaire