It had always been there, before the eyes of the Ick, after Paradise was Lost: The perpetual Enmity between the Flies and the Toads. The
Great Ice Toads themselves had proclaimed it, loudly and vociferously, before they were trapped within the Ice, in the Caves of the
Immortal Lines and Dots. Unfortunately, the Ick never learned to re-connect those Dots. So their most important organs were no longer
connected either. It was incredibly simple and obvious to anyone who could still feel, hear, and see.  Thus the organ of Ick thought
become swollen, confused and misbegotten, and forgot altogether its connections to the organs of joy, and love. In short, the Ick head
actually began to deny the existence of its own balls and cock--the very joystick itself--and eventually no longer even suspected they were
both connected to the heart, in order to jumpstart the art and the craft of love. It was sad—really—very, very sad. And of course the Ick
were doomed to suffer the obvious consequences…for an eternity...   
Visual Metaphors of The Great Ice Toad Prophecy
The Savage Ick: A Brief History

The Ick simply become notorious killers. Actually, they always had been and probably always would be.  After all, the Ick were the
offspring of Hominid apes; everyone with a brain knows that.  Naturally, the Hominids began the party by fighting amongst themselves and
eating each other, eventually slaughtering and killing most of the Neanderthals whose women they carried off and raped. Paleo-genetics and
anthropology alone are sufficient to establish that.

Later, in the Fertile Crescent, it was just a mess of Mesopotamians against all the other-potamians they could find. But the idea took hold
and spread elsewhere from there. Soon, the Jews were fighting amongst themselves until they became the Israelites who slaughtered the
Amalekites, the Canaanites, and the Philistines. [Much later they creamed the Palestinians, and the Egyptians, in the three day war and the
seven day war respectively etc. etc. etc..and blah blah blah].

Then it was the Egyptians who turned against the Hyksos and the Numidians, with the Hittites thrown in, to name a few, while the Persians
took on the Babylonians and the Sumerians and what was left of the Jews.   

Then the Greeks slaughtered their neighbors until they were bored and decided to war against the Trojans, a war said to have lasted some
ten years or so. It really doesn’t matter, anyway. Because, they pretty much polished off the Trojans forever; although, some of the
Trojans may have sneaked away to join up with the Carthaginians.

Then the Greeks were at each other again in the Peloponnesian War (Athens vs Sparta). I don’t remember the score, because eventually,
the Macedonians wasted the rest of the Greeks, the Egyptians, The Persians and the Indians, plus everybody in between. The stink of
burning corpses must have been horrendous.

Soon the Romans went off on the other pseudo Romans, the Etruscans and the Minoans, the Egyptians, the Carthaginians (The Three
Punic Wars) with the Gauls, Goths, Visigoths, and Austrogoths, and about two to four hundred of the Germanic tribes. And don’t forget
the Romans against the Christians and the ancient savage Britons (Think Hadrian’s Wall).

The Mongols, eager to join the fun, started by killing themselves, fighting over pussy and horses, but that got old fast, so their hoards
decided to waste the Chinese, the pseudo-Russians and the Proto Europeans. Anyone who got in their way was toasted also.

Meanwhile the Franks began to slaughter the other Franks, and it was the same with the Celts, the Kelts, and the Vikings who hated
everybody, including themselves. In the new world, of course, it was death to be a Mayan or anybody else, and everybody knows about
the Aztecs who fought wars just for the sheer fun of it. Before long, everybody hated everybody else.

The Crusaders hated the Saracens, traveling long distances just to take them on, so the Moors invaded Spain after chewing up most of
North Africa. And don’t forget the Popish Wars and The Twenty Years War, the One Hundred Years War, the War of the Roses, the War
of the Spanish Succession, The Napoleonic Wars, the Sino-Japanese War and the much maligned Russo-Japanese War. Eventually, after all
of the aforementioned bloodshed and much much more, we come to The American Revolution, The Industrial Revolution, The Chinese
Revolution, and The Russian Revolution. Add all this up and you get slaughter, murder, rape, mayhem and mega-death on an Olympian

Catastrophe after catastrophe, after catastrophe led naturally to new wars on the American continent, including the French and Indian War,
King Phillip’s War, the Mohawk War, the wars against the Iroquois, Cherokee, Choctaw, Chippewa and the Cree, not to mention all the
rest of the Indian nations like the Utes, Paiutes, Shoshone and the ever popular Blackfeet etc.

Working their way down the pages of history the Ick finally began to get serious about developing more efficient weapons which they used
to murderous effect in The American Civil War and the Wars against the Great Horse Cultures of the Plains Indians, the Sioux and the
Cheyenne. But that didn’t satisfy anybody, so along came The Spanish American War, The War of the Philippine Insurrection, The Boar
War, The Zulu Wars and all the Colonial and Nationalistic Wars in Africa, Asia, Southeast Asia, South America and the Pacific etc.  

Now the Ick were really warmed up, so they propelled themselves in a murderous frenzy to try out for the first really really big one: The
1st World wide War where the dead alone numbered in the hundreds of thousands. But that still wasn’t enough, so twenty or so years later
they replayed the hostilities in The 2nd World War, where absolutely everybody who was anybody got terribly involved. Now the deaths
rose into the millions and millions and the destruction mounted to the billions and zillions, upwards of which no one then was intellectually
prepared to count.

The Korean War, The Viet Nam War, The Cuban war, the Falklands War, The Shock and Awe Wars in Iraq, Kuwait etc., the Ten Year
Russian War in Afghanistan, and its sequel, the Ten Year American War in Afghanistan, The American War against Saddam Hussein, the
Wars in Syria, Lebanon, Libya etc., the War between Iraq and Iran, and the Sunni Shiite Wars, still going strong after centuries, the present
War in Syria and Iraq between the Iraqis and Kurds (Peshmerga) against Isis who hates absolutely everybody else, when they are not
raping innocent civilians or cutting off other peoples’ heads. And all of that, literally all of it added up, isn’t even half of the story of the
Ick, because their story isn’t over yet. Is It…
Courtesy of Prophylactic Motion Gifs by Ace
Chapter Fifteen: What Lies Below the Skies of HoHoTaT?
From Grace-notes for the Hands Attempting to
Master the Crafts of the First Three Circles: Carving, Painting, and Language

By Woton, The Greater Khan

You want to believe you’re in control of your life, but you are not, for the greater body cannot allow its members to act with
impunity in the shadow of the Prime Directive. As a consequence, you may never understand what you have painted, even after
you have painted it…
The Second Awakening:

Following a prolonged three year period of hibernation in the Ice Cave of Dots, Woton awoke.
Rising gently through vast layers of consciousness, it was some time before he became aware of the scents, aromas, and smells
wafting in the air of his cubicle. Overhead he could hear the gentle flow of air from the AC vents, and the sounds of machinery
humming in the distance.  While his nostrils continued to sample the immediate surroundings, his ears detected no sounds of
movement anywhere near his crib.

The room was warm with the air slightly humid, just as it had been long before he had gone to sleep. Nothing appeared to have
changed in any significant way. So he slowly opened one eye and peeked through the slated lid into the room. Since all was as it
should be, hesitantly, he opened his second eye as well. Yes, indeed, the room was empty. There were no Ick in his quarters, for it
was still early, since the light in the room was dim.

Swaddled in the warmth of soft absorbent cotton and blankets, he breathed deeply and felt the remains of a stinking and pasty Ick
food which had formed a mush in his diaper, enveloping his genitals and buttocks.  It was still warm. Soon one of the Ick Demons
of the Change would come into his cubicle to perform what he referred to as ‘the procedure.’ The she Ick would first remove the
diaper, cooing to him all the while in soft modulated strains of Engfishie, the talky talk of the Ick. She would tickle him as she
wiped off the residue, and cleaned him with soap and water. Then would come the oil and creams of gently scented substance. Her
fingers would be deft and nimble, her hands warm, soft skinned, and gentle. She would not suspect anything out of the ordinary,
nor sense the touch, or taste the probing, in her head.

Beside his tiny arm and still attached to the crib was his etch-a-sketch tablet, within easy reach…Soon he would be scribbling on it,
for he had much to say about the savage Ick.

After carefully testing his exterior camouflage for any sign of decay, and finding none, he entered an anagogic state, intending to
seek hidden spiritual meanings, while pretending to be asleep. Only then would he wait for the arrival of the Ick.

Unfortunately, he was not prepared for one so beautiful and so desirable, who was obviously willing to suck his prick.

The swirling of black water, with its back splashing effect, spouted from the fountains within. The icy cave of dots was dark and
dank but faintly illuminated by tiny fluorescent spots formed by fungal spores which clung to the cave walls and fed upon the ice
itself. Numinous strains like quatrains composed of rare sounds filled the air which was spicy with the noise of ice—melting.
Shadows from the past merged with images of the present, hovering within dim view before brilliant and flashing eyes. A great
scoop of memory hovered above his head, pouring out its flood of this and that, evanescent images, phantasmagorical, and strange.
There, time itself could be tasted or touched rather than simply apprehended.

Melodies delicately balanced in contrapuntal harmony echoed off the side walls and down the cave channels, like limpid bundles of
coagulated sounds marching in symphonic cadence or notes from strings of syllables in a lute like language ancient and
indescribable. Diaphonic stanzas composed of nothing more than melodic tones oozed from stalactites to couple or mingle with the
breath of stalagmites below. Great sheets and curtains of ice hung in impossible harmony, somehow gliding together or sliding
apart, forming and reforming, merging, like gaping dioramas preserving the past in glistening limewater sculptures from beyond the
realm of human imagination.

Then suddenly all this was gone, erased in the blink of an eye…      

Nurse Crachet entered the Q Ward languidly that morning and sauntered to the main desk to review her list of patients. On it there
was a new name. That cute little Mongolian in the Q Ward with the enormous head. Apparently, one of his regulars was on
vacation and she had to fill in. Attached to her clipboard were the instructions. She read the chart procedures with little professional
interest. “Clean it up and feed it, before you tackle any of your other assignments.” It was signed “Sylvia,” the Ward Supervisor.
Nothing more than that.

“What a dickwad Sylvia is,” she thought to herself, “All business by the book,” like most of the other nurses who worked on the
ward. They called the patients ‘Q-Balls,’ ‘pinheads,’ ‘pencil dicks,’ and the like, tending to dehumanize them as monstrosities. It
was a sad practice conducted in private, but it helped to keep their emotions in check. Nobody can feel sympathetic or sad all of
the time anyway. You were taught to protect yourself, to remain professional, to avoid any unnecessary human contact and never
listen to the gore or the story. Otherwise you wouldn’t last very long and that excellent paycheck would simply float away.
Revenge of the Frogs and Toads
Revenge of the Flies
June 21, 2000    late that evening
Mr. Toad’s Tale

Just as the seed may bear its fruit,
And the tallest trees from acorns root,
A single word, a simple phrase,
May shape the pattern of our days.

And all our lives may simply be
Mere echoes of our destiny.

Who knows the cost once we’ve confessed
That “Yes” we cheated on the test,
Or in the quest for love or power,
We fell from grace?
The Gods make sport with such a weave
When first we practice to deceive,
spider days from thence are spent
In webs we spun by our consent…

And though we dearly do repent
There is no way once we are bent
To bend us back to what we lost
Before we pay the price, the cost.

Thus for a frog to be a prince,
He must acquire uncommon sense,
As any tadpole knows
Who has an ounce of confidence.
The Prophecy of the Clito-dwarf Bilbo Noggins

Ike’s Labio-retentive Clito-dwarf  yaya-ed out of the camouflage of his architectonic pseudo flesh to resume, under less immediate
tri-partite circumstances, those post consultational assignments required by the Jerk Kvetch Memorandum concerning the Soak
Sack Traditions. Nearby, the bushdrunks were forcefully entwined in lugubrious parthenogenesis within the fleshy colostrum of
good and warm ideas, attempting to elaborate upon the 48 hour day and the Kundalini Ear, after performing the required mystical
language content analysis.

With his prime middle digit poised over the great red button on the molecular ideation console, he glanced over at the Chief Egg of
Ejaculand, fidgetting now with the night finger settings modulating the contents and images of the input stimmo-stream. A sweet
erotic lisp revealed the dwarf’s succulent binomial ellipsis was opening, dribbling out its endless gusher of seamless and sememe-
less proto-phonemes which rose to form a thick word jam of juggo-syntaxed noble balled proto-dots, swollen like dates drying in
ginger bread cloud king ascension, while the Chief Egg of Ejaculand took notes.

With consonantal attitude typical of the young, and juveniles in general, the Great Toad of the Ice Cave strutted out of his gloomy
down stream enclave, croaking about the stench of thousands of cave flies breeding on the walls near the entrance to the Ice Cave.
Burping with enthusiasm, he glared at the Labio-retentive Clito-dwarf with malign indifference, chastened by the knowledge that
the Dwarves tasted like foul gingerbread without any redeeming social value whatsoever.

Ike’s Clito-dwarf had nothing to fear from the Great Ice Toads who were known to prefer frogs and flies to men; the Ick
(humans) were simply too full of shit to eat anyway. Better just to crush them into a squishy mess for the flies to feed upon.
Lumbering sideways like a tank with one tread, the Toad returned to its frumptious den within the gloom, expressing a wave length
of unmindful attentional nowness, in order to more fully explore the symbol-seme of a nymph filled symmetrical evolve-o-gasm
with its implied flare-glam of improper referential sign tags.

Returning to his assigned chores, the Clito-dwarf corrected for the meta echo effect of the Great Toad’s lumbering crawl, by
adjusting the audio signals for the backwash and splatter effect, dilating back on the rheostat governing the Wak-Sack of Exchange
versus the ‘Arrivederci’ ephemeral connection. That worked perfectly…

The sugary taste of success now burbled up again within the succulent binomial ellipsis, along with entirely new hymno-horney
ejaculations, as the Na’V Will-airator dial climbed back into the Volitional Varoom range, indicating the bushdrunks were still
conducting mystical language content analysis in a hunt for those elusive protoclop snatch-isms which would be surrounded by
Sylla-nymphs performing audio routines of neo-flowgistical Catalysis, radient as elves dancing in transmendalian clotslippers.

Dripping with perspiration and ingressive gasp regurgo-spit, Ike’s Clito-dwarf inserted a nimble finger into the Nozian Snout of the
closest Picto Totemic Figure seated upon its pseudo moorings of bi-surface sophistry, and tuned in to its mumbled thoughts and
learned ignorance, electing to avoid deliberately the random disobedience of its Ick-like psi-schatic pathologies and quirks, in light
of the ting correctional equations.

Consistent with all the necessities of his Zen Micro-fu Training in Lavender belt Dilly Dilly, and the Abjurgations recorded in the
Official Ma Bulletin of Double Speak, the Clito-dwarf danced in accordance with the DORK ritual (Discipline of Revered
Knowledge) listening obediently to the knells of the 150 Bells of Permutation.   

It was all suddenly made clear. The Prolitho-lexico-data Symboration Revolution was about to begin. No one would any longer be
allowed to practice mucosial rigidity, with its consequential PUD Diminishment (loss of pep urge) and inconsistent soma-tonal
egressions. Apparently, the war was just about over.

The first dribble from the come box of the Order of Harigata prophesied by the Pa Corps in the Codex of Referential Equations [the
so-called N2 theorems] had been sighted as well as heard. The precognitions of Heartland Fruitloops were even now gushing forth
from the Fountains of the Revered Lines and Dots. Soon they would spawn-mingle with the Sylla-bels to be juggo-syntaxed. Only
then would they burst forth like seedlings, strung together on archetypal strings of symbosophic beads or dots to annihilate the
Limit Snooks who had attempted to pollute the Well of Words as well as the sacred Einsteinian Transformations…
Audio Magnified Pictoglyph of the three syllables
in the Phrase “Pleasure Dome” as seen in a
Photospectometer at low magnification.
Audiospectameter Display of the Om sound of a
Sylla-bel in clot-slippers
Only a Narrow Dotted Line Separates the Mysteries of Van Nuys
from the Mysteries of the Cosmos or "Square Dance of the Sylla-bels in Clot-Slippers"
"Lute in the Attic: Don't hurt my spider ladies he cried when they
came in to clean around him"

"From Secrets to Dot Painting"  by Odd Jim Dotty
Nurse Cratchet was not typical of the ward nurses in the
Q-ward at la Casa.  She was not only the youngest
member of the staff, but obviously quite attractive as
well. Her legs were exceptionally well formed, and her
thighs and hips were both round and muscular. Her
pelvis was neither too big nor too small, with a pubis set
wide between her thighs. A small waistline, which
accented an almost perfect buttocks, plump and alluring
from both the side and rear view, was presided over in
the front by two magnificent breasts, the areoles large,
terminating in raison sized nipples, and she always wore
an expensive matched set of underwear, consisting of a
silk panty brief and brassier.  

At 24 years of age, she was still unmarried, had more
than a few male admirers, and enjoyed a good ‘roll in the
hay’ when circumstances permitted.  She had been
around the block, no question about that, but she was
still a choice piece of goose flesh if you know what I
mean.  Her naturally blond hair framed a face accented
by large blue eyes, a petite nose with small nostrils, and
sensuous lips. In general, it was fair to say she had the
figure of a dancer and a model, with long expressive
fingers that she deployed in calculated but graceful
Nurse Cratchet in the Q-Ward Cubicle of Woton, the Hydro-cephalic,
Boosted from the La Casa Sanitarium Surveillance Photo Archive...
Report from the Q Ward
To oddjimdotty
CC Ace Turner

Oct 27 at 10:07 AM
Yo Dotty, got the following email forwarded from J. Leon
Mysticus at La Casa and thought you might want to know. It
seems one of the nurses in the Q Ward has been misbehaving...

To: J. Leon Mysticus
From: Ward Supervisor Sylvia Manganna
Subj: Nurse Geraldine Cratchet

I am disturbed to inform you that one of my nurses in the Q
Ward, the one who is such a Star Trek fan, was caught in a
surveillance video going down on, eh I mean, performing fellatio
upon, that cute little Mongolian Hydro-cephalic we call Woton,
the Greater Khan. Apparently she had disrobed and spent some
time trying to talk to him before she says she just 'lost her head.'  
She actually claims he spoke to her somehow inside her head and
then forced her to perform the deed. Since you instructed all four
ward supervisors to keep you informed of any unusual activities
within the Q-Ward complex, please advise. She has been placed
on Administrative Leave, pending the usual investigation.  

Plans, Trips, and Clitical Developments
Email to Odd Jim Dotty
Saame day at 9:17 AM

You are personally invited to join the we take a raft
down the River Alph to explore the Ice Caves in pursuit of the
Great Toad of Toad Hollow... all obstacles overcome, all
questions answered, all desires fulfilled...  Ike
opsis addenda
From:  Odd Jim Dotty
To:  Eucalyptus Ike

Oct 1, 2014

Upon further reflection I came to realize that my assumptions regarding the small sample size (i.e. N of 2) were ill-founded—I had forgotten
the ‘Multiple Identity Hypothesis'.  Obviously, this N of 2 contains multitudes, allowing appropriate degrees of freedom for statistical
parameters,  and simplifying the task of adapting Seldon’s axiomatics. Have been summoning the cognoscenti (e.g., Quixote, Bokanon, Jubb,
Seymour Glass, Bartleby the Scrivener, Huemac, Basho, Muad Dib, etc.).  You may wish to suggest others who could  offer insights into the
mysteries of periodicity.

You got me with the ’booby trap’ .  Lost my way in there.  Made me realize that I’ve probably lost 50% of my testosterone—the really sad
part is that I don’t know whether that is a good thing or a bad thing.

Yes, you’re right in noting that judgments regarding the breeding program may be premature.  Perhaps this is where considerations of ’The
Mule’  and other cognates may be helpful.
Nurse Cratchet sensed the queerness of the room the moment she entered. Not queer in the current sense of the word, with its
partly negative homoerotic implications, but queer as in its original meaning of ‘odd, strange, or peculiar’ when it first entered the
English language from an obscure origin in1508.

Aside from a few sounds emanating from electro-mechanical gadgetry like the AC and an array of telemetric monitors, the room
itself was unusually quiet. Entrance to it was controlled by a key punch code of 12 digits requiring both alphabetic and numeric
characters, which was odd as well. There was no apparent sign of a security camera inside, but the hallway outside was being
monitored at both ends.

Also, the air in the room seemed unusually moist for some reason, which was not typical of other cubicles on the wards.  The
thing in the cradle (she would have said patient) was still asleep from all appearances, so she approached the crib quietly, intending
not to disturb the patient. She was curious and just wanted a closer look. One of those kid’s toys, an etch-a-sketch for Christ sake,
was attached to its right side. “Why?” she thought. Surely the patient wasn’t using it. She had never seen anything like that before
in any case. And it had signs of some kind on it, strange, even slightly creepy signs. And then one of the patient’s eyes suddenly
popped open and it was a startlingly penetrating eye, like the eye of a snake only blue all around.  

Involuntarily, she stepped back and uttered a small gasp, raising her hand to her face for some reason. She was not afraid, but the
way the lid seemed to have clicked open had startled her. And there was a faint peculiar taste in her mouth she could not identify.
Then the other eye popped open as well. Now both of them were staring directly at the eyes in her face, which made her the
slightest bit dizzy for a moment--that is until she began to hear voices.

Although she could not identify a single word, she could tell that she was hearing two separate voices. At first they were speaking
to each other, but soon, she sensed, one of them was speaking directly to her. It was actually quite beautiful to listen to for some
reason which at first escaped her completely. The pitch was perfect, lilting, melodious, and somehow sort of mesmerizing. It
sounded like a bird cooing syllables in the foreground while other words were being whispered like flowing water in the
background. Between those sounds were phonic melodies like cashmere chants which sounded like the tracings or tinkling of bells.
Next she began to suspect that she could actually taste those bells on her tongue if she really cared enough to try.

The eyes now began to dilate completely open and she felt a compelling urge to step forward and bend down over the crib, where,
immediately, the stench of the diaper laid an imperative claim to her attention.    
Wind Goddess Attacking the [Gene] Pools of Van Nuys
"From Secrets to Dot Painting" by Odd Jim Dotty
A Great Ice Toad about to squish
some cattle before crushing
Kubla Khan's Pleasure Dome in
the Himalayas.

A prominent feature of life in
ancient Ninnylandia, the Ice Toad
image can be found not only on
the escutchen and coat of arms
of House of TaT, but also on
door panels, road signs, postage
stamps, castle toilets, license
plates, carpet baggage, brothel
pillows, government seals and
signage, and even on sewer
outlets where common toads are
known to inhabit. Toad shrines
are almost as common as toads
themselves in the surrounding
countryside which is still referred
to as Toad Hollow.   
Air Ninnylandia, the latest enterprise of the entrepreneurial visionary Count Herpetude XIV of Castle Toad, has broken new ground during its
first full year of operations, while setting a new standard for inflight entertainment. The modern traveler on board one of these sleek
Penthouses in the sky is not crushed like a sardine into a tiny uncomfortable seat bolted to the air frame where he is exposed to the squished
breath and noxious perspiration of others. Instead, he is invited to lay prone on a secluded but comfortable couch d'amore, while his personal
flight attendant attends to his every gourmet need and desire. Fine wines and exquisite French pastry tarts are served up immediately after
'take it off.'  And once the flight is airborne, a leisurely introduction to the amenities of modern air travel, designed to flatter his ego, makes
his abdomen swell with pride. Fond memories of delicate fondling punctuated by latent mammalian motions tickle his tonsils and tantalize
his toes until he is absolutely filled with a cream puff of memories he will never forget. If you're not flying on one our air cunnilingus jets,
you're not flying at all. You're just following the herd...       
Euphemismistically speaking, the act of fellatio is referred to with
many polite, socially acceptable and curious terms of speech. From
the infinitive phrase  'to go down on,'  to the noun phrase 'blow job'
lexicographers are confronted with a variety of expressions, all of
which provide a speaker with 'options' to achieve consummation of
his purpose. Apparently, if you have to ask for it, you are required
to go about it with a certain amount of delicacy and taste.  

The act itself is unquestioningly commonplace, however, appearing
in the movies, novels, short stories and media of every conceivable
type. Sex manuals provide intimate photos to guide the novice
through each step of the process. Jokes about it are well
represented even in the comedic performances on television. Most
American children by the age of six are already aware of it, with
some just dying to try it.

Ground breaking surveys on the sexual preferences of Americans,
conduted by the Kinseys and others, revealed a great deal of hidden
information about sex. Among the details, the surveys confirmed
that the older the respondent the more likely he or she was to be
embarrased about sex, with the elderly often exhibiting the greatest
reluctance to speak about it. Furthermore, repressed sexuality, in
fact, may be a primary cause of mental illness, as well as sex
crimes against females in general.

It is also clear from psychiatric literature that repressed sexuality,
desires etc., play a substantial role in the fields of the arts. Artists
have been known to walk into airplane propellers, blow their heads
off, drink themselves into alcoholic states, and otherwise engage in
destructive behaviors (like cutting off ears) because they lacked
sexual partners and so forth. Evidence of repressed sexuality also
occurs commonly in their works. Take the painting here by Odd
Jim Dotty, for example. In an early stage of its development, Dotty
used the following title to refer to it: "Wind Goddess Blowing the
Jewels of Van Nuys." As time passed, however, Dotty substituted
the word 'Pools' for the word 'jewels,' which is a euphemism for
male sexual organs as in the phrase 'the family jewels.' Much later,
even the meaning of the word 'pools' was amended by modification
to 'gene pools' in an attempt apparently to further cloud the issue.
Excerpt: "From Secrets to Dot Painting" by Jimmie Walkabout
Two Versions of the couch potato classic "Dark Strokes in a Tangerine Dream" by Ven D-Ike Cavendish T-odd
"Dance of the Sylla-Bells"  in the Great Ice Cave of Ninnylandia

The voices had stopped and the thought that her imagination must have been playing tricks on her trickled like a meandering stream
into her consciousness. She remembered that she was here to attend to the patient, not to engage in daydreams and dithering. So,
after a brief moment of mental confusion, she began thinking professionally.

First, she removed the crib blankets, and then the soiled diaper, tossing everything into a nearby hamper. Next she cleaned his
bottom with sani-wipes and applied diaper rash ointment to the area. Turning him first to the left, she un-tucked half the sheet and
after the same maneuver to the right, she removed the sheet entirely, tossing it also into the hamper. Repeating that process in
reverse, she replaced the sheet and tucked it in around the mattress.  Then as if someone had turned off the lights, her mind went
blipity blank.
The next thing she knew, she was bending over the crib, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, the patient’s eyes were spinning around like two
tops, and in her mouth she could taste something like--semen? Looking down, she saw the ‘thing’ was naked and his tiny penis was erect and
swollen. Then in the door burst Sylvia, the ward supervisor, with two security guards in tow behind her. And Sylvia was screaming “What the hell do
you think you’re doing? I told you to clean it up and feed it. I did not say fuck around with it!”

“Get your ass back in your uniform and into my office. As of now, you stupid dipshit, you are relieved of duty.”
Back in the Ice Cave and mingling with pleasurable confusion, the mind of Ike’s Clito-Dwarf floated on a dark pool above which hovered brilliant
incandescent images. Waves of tectonic delight reverberated through his spinning senses--palpable, tumescent, and invigorating. Shimmering
scintillations of dot sounds and dashed silence cascaded like warm chocolate and sweet molasses into his ears and eyes, now synthesized with bell
like mellifluous adulations. Diaphanous diphthongs slithered up to convalescing consonants, to mingle and merge in precocious bi-lingual relations.
Fricatives fornicating with susurrus affricates humped their way along sinuous strings of sybaritic syllables, laden with localized syncopations of
purely ingressive and audible ejaculations. Milky white voiceless aspirants popped forth to attach themselves to bi-labial plosives, conjugating
themselves with voiced guttural clicks, pops and stops. Organic and chemically orchestrated liaisons catapulted proto-syllables across morphological
and syntactic synapses, crossing all boundaries in order to pollinate flowering similes and metaphoric orchestrations, exfoliating in splendiferous
profusions of comprehensible concatenations. Obviously, it was an absolutely terrific orgasm to say the least.

While it was certainly true that the Dwarf had supplied nurse Cratchet with a slight mental nudge, suggestive with libidinal oscillations, he had not
forced her to do anything. She had made up her own mind out of just plain material curiosity. Although she could not remember every detail of the
experience, she would never forget it entirely either. She knew she had shared everything, absolutely everything the Dwarf had felt, thought, sensed
and experienced, down to the last drop, every smell, sound, sight and thought, and it had been absolutely wonderful, even staggering in its immensity.
She had experienced sex with an alien being and she would never be quite the same person ever again. Whatever happened next wouldn’t matter,
because it was worth it; it was worth every penny of the price or the cost …     
Anyone who needs this gadget explained is not
only dis-advantaged but also incredibly
dis-informed about science, patent law, the
physics of sound, and the limitations of

Needless to say, if this explanation doesn't
'work' for you, then you have no business
trying to read any of this stuff in the first
place, because you are simply hopeless, and
there is nothing that anyone, including you,
can do about it.

You might as well go back to watching sports
and football games on television. Try golf if it
helps. Some people enjoy batting a little white
ball around a big green field and are even
willing to pay a lot to do it. At the very least
it's healthy exercise if that is what you're in
Willy nilly quivered the jelly-ode of pulsations now throbbing in the praxis globulators of the fleshy colostrum, as the procto-lipid-ikes began to shift
their weight to bear upon the great sag ways of the multifaceted inoculators. Simultaneously, Jimmy Jams of Oozian postulations began to inject
themselves and their tetra-cyclic paradigms with the Ovoid-porous spondactiles, hovering above their mutual pseudo- cryptic frisbies of gossamer
foam from the preposterous immaculate conceptualizers. Meanwhile, within the Clito-dwarf’s sweet bi-nomial ellipsis, great streams of goober like
phonetic interstices hooked themselves to maculate membranous morphemes as wave upon wave of sybaritic syllabics copulated in prodigious
machinations, gyrations, inspirations and evocations.

Sensing the Clito-dwarf’s priapic preparations, as required by the Kvetch procedural memorandum, now the Chief Egg of Ejaculand wrench fitted his
tendril like puissant finger around the autonomous tumescent joy stick on his macro-balled ideation console, soothing himself with notions of burp
free cogitations attended by naked visions equipped with the usual fantastically rounded and otherwise swollen bulbazoidal projections. Penetration
after penetration after penetration, he magnified his way along the mystical libertine freeway, sampling the bountiful fare of prodigal glandular
gradations, warm and tender, soft and spongy to the touch and the taste. Glabrousless and glamorous were the nipple nodules now swollen and slick
with the joint smear off his prodigious palpitating perpendicular pinballs, rocking their way this way and that like molten boulders hung from a ceiling
of nacreous stalactites. Iridescent and glowing with the spume gurgling out and off the vertiginous and now volcanic vesicles of the hebatudinal
fruitloops, he bathed each and every graphemeless proto phoneme in the unctuous ointments of the chief egg yolk of his Ejaculandic Oscillator,
tirelessly exercising his valvoline encrusted crepuscular ovularities to exert the maximum foam from every N2 minimum theory he possessed.

It was grand, it was moist, and it was exceptionally audible as well. It was the epitome of a juggo-syntaxed noble-balled apparition, and it hung now
unsupported in the darkness of the Great Ice Cave. There was no word for it…yet. But it was a sight no mortal had ever conceived even in his
wildest dream fantasy. And it was slowly but inexorable leaking its lobularian and proliptic ink along the passageway leading to the entrance of the
cave….soon that ink itself would be wafted skyward on the evening breeze to mingle in intimate combinations with the very clouds themselves,
particle partaking of particle until the resultant mixtures formed droplets lulled by gravitational attraction to fall upon the barren earth below. The Ick
themselves were about to be infected, and there was absolutely nothing that anyone could do to stop it.
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