Confidential Memorandum

From:       Niels Nailer, Acting Superintendent, La Casa Sanitarium
To:           Guardians and Trustees of Patients in the IT Project: Shared Dimension 109
Subject:    Change in Personnel

Due to the circumstances surrounding yesterday’s scandalous news, the La Casa Board of Directors, in a unanimous decision, voted today to
remove Dr. Frank Weevil from his position as Superintendent and General Manager of the sanitarium. There was general agreement among the
members that whatever the outcome of the legal issues Dr. Weevil faces, his recent behavior has tarnished the spotless reputation of this institution
and his dismissal was a necessary first step to assure the families of our patients that no stone would be left unturned in our efforts to rectify the
damage he has caused by his reckless disregard for the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.  

In accordance with article 4, paragraph 6, clause 7 of his employment contract (the moral turpitude clause) Dr. Weevil will be denied all
compensation and medical benefits during the course of the criminal and civil litigation surrounding his case, and should the jury in his civil
complaint against the sanitarium find against the plaintiff, he will furthermore be denied that portion of his pension, including all accrued dividends
and interest, which is equivalent to the expenses borne by the sanitarium in defense of its legal interests.

The board has asked me, as well, to assure all interested parties that there will be no increase in monthly charges to patients or their families as a
result of the expenses this institution must bear over the course of these ‘trying times’.  All services rendered will be rendered at the same level of
superior performance our customers have grown to and are entitled to expect.  

Finally, I want to extend a personal apology to our dedicated professional staff, employees, and all of our wonderful patients and their families for
the egregious and unscrupulous conduct of Dr. Weevil, whose willful and unprincipled machinations lead him inevitably so far off the garden path.

Sincerely,

Niels Nailer
Superintendent and General Manager, La Casa Sanitarium
A Violent Yoking Together of Heterogeneous Qualities
Of course, nothing about these details would have been particularly shocking to the sensibilities of the typical So Cal city dweller accustomed to the
daily litany of crimes against humanity published with grisly frequency in the press were it not for the depraved inclination of the former asylum

superintendent to make his patients the victims of his insatiable greed. There is something unforgivable, so extreme and diabolical about someone
whose oath requires that he do no harm, who then willfully
victimizes those he has been entrusted to serve.  lives, often enfeebled, hallucinatory,
confused, befuddled, or desperately depressed.
Beyond that unfortunately is the fact that his victims were also in many respects 'prisoners'
confined in padded cells, living their abjectly restricted lives, often enfeebled, hallucinatory, confused, befuddled, or desperately depressed.


Apparently the odious felon was something of a bean counter as well, for on the hard drive of his office computer the authorities found an
astonishing array of records associated with his criminal enterprise.  Not only did he enter the details of every illicit sale of booze or drugs, but he
also itemized the quantities, dosages and methods of ‘delivery’ preferred by the ‘customers’ he serviced. Patients were grouped according to
whether they preferred to chew, swallow, smoke, inhale or brew the drugs he provided.  A mug shot of each “John” was attached to his file which
included a complete psychiatric workup as well as all relevant medical records associated with the patient’s general health.  Payment was typically
made to appear as internet sales for otherwise bogus items such as books, CD’s, electronic equipment, cameras, or the delivery of Pizza, cookies,
doughnuts, etc.  A special entry might include orders for “The blind screaming munchies” thought to be some sort of code for a particularly
powerful blend or concoction of drugs.

Most transactions between patients and their drug connection were made via the internet, which afforded some degree of anonymity to Dr. Weevil,
but subsequent to his arrest the authorities interviewed at least fifty patients who admitted they were well aware of Weevil’s criminal activities but
chose to ignore them because they wanted convenient access to the ‘prescriptions’ he provided. It was also clear that Weevil was quick to punish
anyone who ‘broke the rules’ imposed upon his clients. All sales were final; no returns or refunds were allowed.  Customers were encouraged
never to complain, to Weevil or anyone else.  Dosages were never to be “cut” and subsequently sold to somebody else.  Satisfaction was
guaranteed; dissatisfaction was discouraged or rubbed out…i.e. the flow of goods and services to that client would simply cease.

Coupled with his drug and booze operations, Weevil also operated a rather cozy brothel on the sanitarium grounds.  In exchange for drugs, female
patients were encouraged to provide sex upon demand to other patients.  As the demand for such services grew, inevitably the supply of suppliers
became inadequate.  So Weevil responded by enlisting the services of some of the nursing staff.  Soon troubling questions and complaints began to
surface between the two groups, the pros and the nurses. Just who was receiving what for what?  You see, the pros [who were all patients]
suspected that the nurses were somehow getting a better deal.  Naturally this led to some infighting between the two groups as well as an effort on
the part of both to lock in their relations with the Johns. Competition for the Johns, of course, lead to some nasty consequences for everyone
involved until Weevil tried to establish ‘the going drug rate’ for about twenty-seven average sexual acts. Subsequently, the type and quantity of
drugs exchanged for sex became the topic of every labor negotiation between Weevil, the pros, the Johns, and the nurses ever since.

When asked by this reporter to explain how the daily brothel operation ‘worked’, Parlance Carp and Fustian J. Prig, two patients housed in the
notorious M-Wing of the sprawling sanitarium complex, agreed to explain after being granted anonymity for their testimony.  According to the two
men, requests for ‘visitations’ were sent over the internet with all charges paid by credit card.  Practice determined price.  A menu of ‘offerings’
was circulated among the patients, but concealed as a form for trivial purchases of luxury items or specialty foods delivered to your cell-room. A
‘four meat-ball Greek sandwich’ meant “two big breasts coming at you front and back.”  Terms such as ‘smoked salami,’ ‘your fruit baked with
vanilla strudel,’  ‘beans and weenie gobbler,’ ‘back-stairs brownies,’ and ‘twister buns in mango chutney’ were substituted for the more pedestrian
requests. ‘Mouth watering suckled pork,’ ‘oysters dipped in redhead saucy’ and ‘Bayou Clam Spatter’ were apparently three of the more
frequently ordered items.

Shocking as this must be to our faithful Christian readership, it appears that Weevil ventured far beyond the mundane realities of the typical master
of the bordello, in an attempt to expand his tawdry lubricious operations. According to Carp and Prig, by their own admission two of Weevil’s best
customers, special promotions and packaged deals were frequently touted by the whorehouse staff for those who could afford the expense.  ‘Out
of cell privileges’ promoted the use (rental) of conjugal facilities maintained by the sanitarium exclusively for married couples (one or both of
whom had been committed to the facility). Professionally printed brochures found in Weevil’s file cabinets advertised ‘bargains’ in colorful terms
such as “Explore the Three Way Kvetch and Jerk, an overnight delight that will leave you saggy with satiation.” Or “Arise to you Sunrise Surprise
after two Shenas midnight milk your cookies.” And for the music lover, “You fiddle, we mosh diddle [you] until you say ‘uncle got a sore
peduncle’.” Naturally, all manner of combinations were possible, combined with up to four doses of drugs specially selected to enhance the
festivities.       
Authorities who raided the administration offices of the Superintendent discovered 142
bottles of bathtub hooch (labeled as stain remover) and a staggering assortment of
pills, pot, and mind altering medications which were apparently being sold to patients
in the restricted wards of the hospital and the sanitarium.  Two of the superintendent’s
administrative assistants, Ms Windy Muckworm and one Pimp Nudnick, were also
arrested as co-conspirators and are under investigation as well. A third suspect, Dr.
Finiky Smellfungus, a chemist, is being sought in connection with the day to day
operation of a secret drug lab. According to Lt. Habaniero Y Yolanda, who lead the
raid, a clandestine drug lab was discovered behind the superintendent’s spacious
personal suite on the third floor of the Administration Complex. It contained all the
chemicals required for the manufacture of ‘crank,’ ‘meth’ and ‘Ecstasy,’ as well as
numerous other illegal drugs.  The lieutenant described the lab as “a veritable candy
store for those with an uncontrollable drug habit.”


             Mental Health Scandal Unfolds: Sanitarium Director Runs Amok
Smellfungus the chemist
Local Christians were appalled yesterday to learn of the alleged criminal activities of a mental health professional employed at the La Casa
Sanitarium in Irvine.  Dr. Frank Weevil, General Manager and Superintendent of the facility, was arrested and charged by the Irvine District
Attorney with nine counts of felonious assault against patients, racketeering, bootlegging, prostitution, and the direction of a criminal enterprise
involving the sale of illicit substances on the premises, not to mention failure to report all the sources of his income to the IRS.
Dr. Frank Weevil
From:   Dr. Frank Weevil, retired...
To:      AKA Khan, Bail Bondsman (and Executive Editor Artsy Fartsy)
Subject:  Posting My Bail Bond

Dear Mr. Khan, in light of the many extraordinary compliments I have heard expressed about your bail bonding acumen, I take this opportunity to
introduce myself and to request that you look into the possibility of posting a bond sufficient to obtain my release from the Orange County Jail.  
Conditions here are as shocking as anyone could possibly imagine. And I find myself at wits end in my attempts to cope with the demands imposed
upon my very survival at the hands of the unscrupulous and fiendish criminal elements hereabouts.  I beg you to look with compassion at the
details surrounding the state of my unlawful incarceration and to be merciful in your examination of the ugly illegal realities to which I am daily
exposed: the filth and the overcrowding, to say nothing of the uncouth, vicious, intimidating behaviors of my cell mates. A mere $250,000 would
extricate me from this immoral morass laid at my doorstep by misguided and unscrupulous politicians, incompetent medical authorities, competing

business interests, ambitious subordinates and bounty hunters bent on smearing my good name and obtaining control of my patronage.
 I have
attached documents I believe show the depth and breadth of the heinous conspiracy compounded without a doubt to destroy me, my family, indeed
my seed for all future generations.  In short, I need a loan...

Sincerely,
Dr. Frank Weevil
Remarkables from the Lightweight Ligatures of Meldrick the Regurgitator
Taken from his “Universal Pity Diaries, Retrospective on Routine Social Mechanisms”

The Date:                February 10, 6257 EGAD {Expressed [in the] Gibberish [of] Arcane Data}
The Place:               Babalopolis District Regional Secretariat, Amerindo sub-Continent
The Time:               A little after his obligatory (and tiresome) morning expostulations…
The Interface:        Pre-dynamic English rerun through a model p-22473 {philoquacious} universal translator…


Today [burp] I want to speak to you about a little known but extraordinary phenomenon said to have energized the incivil populations of primitive
cultures in pre-dynamic times.  As you know, our understanding of the etiquette of civil relations for pre-dynamic civilizations is limited owing to
the time scales involved and to the indifference our polite contemporaries place upon conversation about their most distant Darwinian ancestors.
Nevertheless, mindful that what is of little consequence to others is not of no consequence whatsoever, I take this opportunity to display what little
information is available about a truly remarkable set of societal mechanisms said to have determined the course of history for hundreds of years of
the barbarous past.

Those [sounds of gargling] who take for granted the benefits provided to us by four thousand years of social science will find it hard to imagine
that once long ago humans actually had to labor each and every day of their miserable and squalid lives to acquire just the bare necessities of shelter
and sustenance.  What is provided to us as free as the air was for them the object of a daily grind as relentless as waves upon an unforgiving and
rocky shore.  Society then (for lack of a better term) was pre-organized into harsh and demanding enclaves who fought bitterly among and
between themselves for the meanest slice of an advantage over others.  Terms which for us have no concrete referential meaning whatsoever were
for them frightening realities exposed with gruesome regularity. Primitive means of information exchange once called simply ‘media’ actually
sought to profit from the misery and travail of others by providing a constant diet of disaster to their barbaric subscribers.  Death was a profitable
industry, as was disaster, famine, pestilence, starvation, and war.  Mongers of every stripe and persuasion mounted vast campaigns (both militant
and suicidal) to gain advantage over the disadvantaged, who were punished for their weakness, ignorance, frailty or powerlessness.  Pity was
nonexistent, as was shame, disgrace, infamy and dishonor.  The law was the knife and the gun, the tooth and the claw, and what passed for
religion was an abomination of competing sects as intent on domination as their less constrained political rivals.

Imagine [more belching] the chaos of billions of frantic and desperate individuals pitted against themselves and everyone else, divided by height,
weight, skin color, national and international boundaries, flags, religious affiliations, tribes, sects, ideologies, cultural differences, feuds, hatreds,
wars and government indifference, all intent on clawing and scrambling their way forward over the trash heap of a post industrial economy built
upon the foundation of a relentless and pitiless usury. Then multiply by a factor of 10 raised to the power of 69 and you will have some idea of
what life was like at the time. Now imagine millions of these distraught individuals behind the wheel of primitive gas powered vehicular
conveyances called ‘autos’ but each ineffectually stopped, started and maneuvered by a pilot behind a “steering wheel,” many armed with primitive
ballistic weapons and other exceedingly dangerous munitions, and all coerced onto a strictly defined roadway called a “freeway” and you will
understand why everyone was at risk of loss of life and limb at any moment.  Vast and predacious, armed and dangerous, swarms of these pre-
dynamic humans left their hovels each day and commuted to something called ‘work,’ strapped inside their hydrocarbon fueled autos, all the while
spewing a choking miasma of byproducts from the engine exhaust and heat dissipation systems, ventilating the atmosphere over gigantic open air
cities with poisonous cancer causing agents.  As deliberate as a sprawling herd of horned and beetle browed bison, this spectacular onslaught of
organized stupidity slithered across a tortured landscape bisected, cut, diced, scored, severed and hacked into all manner of divisions, subdivisions,
suburbs, subsections, parcels, and fringes, filled with every conceivable combination of trash, garbage, waste, rubbish, refuse, litter, junk and
scrap.  And those were the best neighborhoods.  Everywhere else things were even worse.

There were [sounds of one clearing mucus from his throat] whole countries (i.e. political entities with vague boundaries defended by thuggish semi-
governmental regimes armed with an indescribable concatenation of lethal weapons) whose ‘citizens’ (a polite term for those unfortunate enough to
be born locally) fared even worse.  Imagine domiciles fabricated of mud mixed with straw or sticks woven into wattle or (in colder climates) snow
cut up into cubes and stacked up to serve as temporary walls.  Imagine yourself sleeping there on the bare ground cloaked in feral animal skins,
eating raw and bloody protein, insects, grubs, grass, even the dirt itself, and drinking fluids polluted with human and animal effluent mixed with
every conceivable form of industrial pollutant, chemical contaminant, or biomedical waste. Imagine an entire landscape filled for as far as the eye
can see with nothing but the most primitive encampment where millions of teeming victims of useless disputes have been left, deserted or
abandoned with insufficient water, clothing, food and medicine to support the most minimal necessities for existence.  Imagine them dying by the
hundreds and thousands daily, then dumped into ghastly public burial pits filled with not only the dead but the dying…the tangled limbs
shrunken…the bloated bellies…the vacant staring…

[Sounds of farting]   
Do not click
on this button!
You think every alien is going to resemble Brad Pitt?   Not likely, and of course Snoop knew that.  You see (and whether you see or not is of
almost no consequence whatsoever) what Snoop recognized, that thousands of others did not, is that this particular painting is an early work in the
style of none other than Odd Jim Dotty, the master himself.  Suppose you were prancing around Paris, visiting used book stalls and sidewalk
galleries when suddenly you stumbled upon an unrecognized work by Picasso, and you knew absolutely without a doubt you were looking at close
to $1.7 million dollars?  That’s about the size of the emotional experience that Snoop Muck felt.  For this item was an extraordinarily rare painting
for more than one reason.  First, it is the only identified instance of a Dotty painting in the genre of science fiction, which alone would be a notable
and valuable exception.  But, second, it is also the only known instance of a Dotty painting representing a character from an actual science fiction
story.  In fact, what Snoop discovered is the original conception by Dotty of a character from the early work of the now infamous P. T. Gravey,
whose short story, “Lope of Wind River,” a classic about the virtuosity of an alien runner, was first published in an obscure New Mexican
periodical over forty-five years before.  Thus, Snoop the Muckraker, as he is known in the news community locally, acquired for the grand price
of $1.25 an original early Dotty with an incontestable provenience, an authorship for which there is absolutely no dispute.  Doubtless, there have
been thousands of people who entered that same shop over the years and perhaps hundreds who paused to view the oddball painter’s work,
chuckling to themselves, muttering inane sarcasms, and savoring their own presumed “superior sense of taste.”  All the while Fate had prepared
her ineffable lesson with care: because “What you don’t know can sometimes genuinely turn out to be a very great pain in your pocket book as
well as your ass.”    
"Tips on Local Trips" by Yak Von Prattle
Experienced hunter gatherers never underestimate the potential for finding
bargains at a local thrift shop and neither should you. Collectors ‘in the know’
habitually poke through trash donated by those gaming the IRS for income tax
deductions.  Why? Because, occasionally they discover a real gem, a costly
antique, expensive clothing or other valuable items.  But Snoop Muck of
Burbank, a staff writer for the Immaculate Times, may have hit the utter
jackpot.  Last week, according to Snoop, he was prowling through the aisles
of the Zen Baptist Mystic Positivist Thrift Shop in downtown Van Nuys,
spying on the local hookers and drug pushers, when he spotted the oddball
item you see in the photo to the left.  Now, most of us would not have been
remotely interested in this scowling anthropomorphic alien loping across his
hostile otherworldly environment, but Snoop knew better because Snoop is
not an uniformed ignoramus. Granted, to the collector whose expertise rivals
the aspirations of an asp, this snarky buck-naked figure does not inspire
confidence in the artist’s understanding of Gray’s Anatomy, but so what?
What you need to know to profit from the ignorant.
Apparently as a male prostitute she sucked, so her career took a violent turn for the worse one night after three of her ‘clients’ discovered her
feminine side effects.  Beaten to within an inch of her life, the punk recovered from her injuries in the home of Pastor Warren Peace, the Zen
Baptist Mystic who runs the facility where she was attacked.  Subsequently, Ms Muckworm accepted Christ as her savior, and after being ‘born
again,' she attended night school typing classes in order to launch her new career. The story of how these two sorry ass bozos met and later
conspired to commit murder soon began.

According to the ‘Pimps and Fags Gazette,’ the Van Nuys Rump Riders eventually expelled Pimp Nudnick when he refused to offer his backside
any longer and they discovered he preferred coitus to the pederastic preferences of the membership.  Naturally, Pimp was disconsolate over the
loss of his brass knuckles, biker leathers, colors, and hob nail boots, but what can you do?  Lots of people were losing their jobs nowadays.  Minus
the rent money and thrown out onto the street by a harsh and  unsympathetic landlady, Pimp drifted south from Van Nuys, stealing bicycles or
bumming rides to make his way.  Somewhere beside the 405 freeway, under one of the raised on ramps or perhaps in the bushes beside the
roadway, he met the hermaphrodite Ms Windy Muckworm, working her way south for similar reasons.  Both were lonely, troubled souls, and as
fate would have it they struck up a mutually dependent relationship: she hauled his ashes for protection from other sexual predators
.

Needless to say, since both were graduates of the school of hard knocks, over the summer of 2007 brick by ugly shtick they made their way down
the freeway, pausing here and there to enjoy the fresh air, sleeping under the overpasses or in the riverbeds, until they arrived one day in Irvine.  
There, a violent sexual encounter with a homeless retard by the name of Freddie the Pizmo Lizard, provided information that was to be of critical
importance to their first shaky step up the low life social ladder.  It seems Freddie had only recently been released from custody at the La Casa
Sanitarium where he had been undergoing treatment for alcohol and drug addiction, and as luck would have it, he still had a small amount of
unscrupulous Weevil’s methamphetamines in his possession. This fact was discovered when Windy offered to trade a hand job for pocket change
which the Lizard didn’t have.  During the course of the violent jerk off which followed, the two itinerants deftly interrogated the Lizard until he
revealed the source of his stash. Obviously, gainful employment was only a short hop, skip and jump away. Thus, their credentials in hand so to
speak, within the week, both Pimp Nudnick and his sidekick Ms Windy Muckworm had talked their way into Weevil’s burgeoning drug operation
at La Casa.  Grand Jury testimony by scores of patients at the La Casa Asylum revealed that Weevil hired both Nudnick and Muckworm for their
former occupational expertise.  Muckworm took over the day to day management of the prostitution ring and made drug deliveries from Weevil’s
lab; the Pimp went along as her strong arm and bodyguard.  As Weevil’s assistants, the two had unlimited access to the wards and private patient
facilities.  Anyone who complained got bashed for his trouble and that was that.  Repeat offenders ended up in a straitjacket or under sedation in a
padded cell.  Prospects for profit were unquestionably optimistic.  Data taken from Weevil’s computer files documented that under Muckworm’s
supervision “prescription drugs sales” alone rose by over 300%, from about $200,000 to $814,000 dollars during the first six months of operations
while profits from prostitution showed an even greater percentage of increase. But those details bear little significance for the remainder of our
story.        
They do the crime, we deliver the time frame.

                 “Gang Bangers Commit Holy Murder at Local Nuthouse”
by Free Agent Wacko, FBI
Hard line aficionados of murder and mayhem were not surprised by yesterday’s so-called grim revelations published in the
‘Pimps and Fags Gazette’.  Why? Because the two scum bags indicted for conspiracy to commit murder had already wracked
up a long perp-sheet of offenses for going on twenty years.   Before we get to the particulars of the nuthouse nasties,
consider the brief bios on the low life we’re covering today. Pimp Nudnick, seen at left (with an IQ of
 62) started his life of
crime as a common street soldier for the Van Nuys Rump Riders lead by Sid the Spider. He
earned his criminal moniker, ‘The
Dentist,” by a liberal application of brass knuckles to the teeth of anyone who failed to cop to the protection racket the Rump
Riders ran down on local businesses in the area.  Nudnick actually collected teeth for resale as amulets with the so-called
power to prevent “sudden insidious tooth decay.”
From the protection rackets Pimp graduated to home invasion and armed robbery, for which he served 5 to 9 at the
Lompoc state penitentiary.  As a dispensary orderly at Lompoc, Pimp is reported to have assisted regular jailhouse medical
personnel in numerous dental extractions due to his reputation for ‘removing teeth.’  The hermaphrodite Ms Windy ‘the
punk’ Muckworm, pictured here in her Tehachapi Mug Photo, spent years as a street prostitute working the thrift shop
clientele in greater Van Nuys.  Alternating between her male and female personas, she seduced thrift shop customers for
small change, is an accomplished pick pocket, and otherwise begged, borrowed or stole from everyone she deliberately
bumped into. Her only known companion was a pet leech she kept in a small fishbowl in her dingy apartment over a
combination bail bondsman and crummy thrift shop operation, the Zen Baptist Mystic Positivism facility, in downtown Van
Nuys.
The evidence photo above shows a collection of teeth found in the Pimp’s squalid garage apartment in Mission Viejo, California, where he
manufactured “amulets” for sale at local swap meets. Forensic analysis of dental records at La Casa showed that at least nine of these teeth were
“removed” from patient recalcitrants, including two from victims of a double murder committed at the sanitarium in August of 2007 shortly after
Weevil hired Nudnick and Muckworm to run his illicit drug operations. This link to the deaths of two genuine fruitcakes, Father Ronnie the
Flemish Fulminator and his padded cell mate Brother Jubb the Peanut Butter Emancipator, proved to be the critical evidence to crack that case.  
Questioned at length about his role in the affair, Nudnick admitted to slitting their throats after forcibly removing a few of their teeth because the
two ‘pussies’ refused to stop screaming during the extraction process…      
You will recall that Pimp Nudnick suffered from a morbid fascination for tooth
decay, so much so that he often removed teeth from anyone who failed to
follow his mouthful of sinister recommendations for Sid the Spider’s Rump
Rider collections rackets.  Unfortunately, an inordinate preoccupation with
turning his hobby into a profit is precisely what led to Nudnick being undone…  
Filename:   The Diary of Sebastian Smellfungus

Excerpt from Smellfungus’ La Casa Laboratory Research Diary  

Today is a red letter day!   I simply must crow about it regardless of the false modesty I assume here around the Neanderthals I cannot avoid.  
The great cretin Weevil has swallowed the ploy—hook, line, sinker, rod and reel—doubtless because his dubious credentials
and third world
education are grossly insufficient to sustain his ill-deserved ego. The clumsy unsuspecting clod has no idea of
the formidable breakthrough in
research his ham-fisted, lumbering “supervision” has made possible. The rest of his staff remain too befuddled by the strange turns of events
around here to grasp any of the threads I have woven into the iron curtain around my design.  All systems are now go with the full support of
both Federal and state funding provided by my ground breaking SD 109 grant.  Very shortly the patients who have received authorized access to
the internet (how sweet it is) will be online grousing and complaining about everything, a gambit guaranteed to distract and confuse Nailer’s
pathetic surveillance of the project. The HIPP study [High Intensity Pornography Project] will then proceed on schedule, and my research
subjects will be gleefully whacking off [masturbating] with unparalleled frequency, supplying me with the data [electroencephalograms, etc.]  I
require to further my understanding of the electro-chemical basis of self-love [onanism]. I shall celebrate by ingesting one of my own libidinous
designer drugs and join in the late night festivities by humping Nurse Quigly and ordering the curvaceously deranged GULP delivered to my
private laboratory for a penetrating review of her estrus cycle and blood hormone levels.


Excerpt from the Diary of Sebastian Smellfungus, “The Love Chemist”
Mazatlan, Mexico…

My ‘disappearance’ has apparently been accepted by the authorities investigating the La Casa debacle, and the notorious idiot, Weevil, has
received his just desserts for his inept and clumsy meddling in my revolutionary experiments.  Granted, I have had to abandon my cozy research
facilities at the sanitarium as well as most of my experimental subjects, but that is of little consequence at this stage of my research. Besides, I
could no longer count on the reliability of data collected from drug experiments conducted upon the general sanitarium population, especially the
‘hard cases’ housed in the megalomania wards.  Nevertheless, I remain confident that, soon, the neuro-chemical basis of ‘love’ will be well
within in my grasp.  

Imagine a world where everyone loves everyone else as deeply and passionately as they love themselves. The mere idea is absolutely astonishing,
mesmerizing, even shocking in its casuistical consequences. To say nothing of the fact that war itself would be passé. Imagine what your day
would be like in any locale on the face of the planet. Admiring looks wherever you went, flirting on a scale of unimaginable gravitude,  public
lovemaking unhampered by conventional social restrictions, mass collective orgies as commonplace as sporting events,  worldwide brother- and
sisterhood, the elimination of the family, marriage, lawyers, divorce, child support and social security, to name just a few. When everyone loves
everyone else (if they take the pill daily) there will no longer be any necessity for judges, juries, the legal system, and governments; nor will
armies, navies, or air forces be of any use any longer. Instead, the world will be one gigantic loving family--all memberships accepted, all races,
creeds, half breeds blended together in a marvelous universal collective, one harmonious congress of coital cohabitation, one intercourse of
stupendous proportions, like a terra formed orgasm exploding into Dionysian ecstasy. The world will quiver with a new and vibrant sociability
and a coherence of mutual goals and aims, fostered by the bonds of love.  New holidays will arise: ‘Love Day,’  “Pleasure Week,’  ‘Stick it to a
newbie,’  ‘Let’s all kum on Palm Sunday,’  ‘Gag me ‘til I’m Gorgeous.’ All the really important social interactions—working, playing, eating,
sleeping—will be indelibly altered, shaped and perfected by experimental design, as new cross generational and cross cultural pollinations
provide  innovative perspectives, postures, penetrations, positions, combinations, ejaculations…

‘Work’ will lose its deleterious connotations, providing instead a social nexus for extending one’s love life through personal and intercontinental
relationships; terms like ‘co-worker,’ ‘teamwork,’ ‘super-visors’ ‘sticky together,’ and ‘Org Chart’ will reverberate with new and exciting
connotations, yielding to the rising tide of orgasmic orientation. Engulfed, surrounded, overcome by a mounting spectacle of priapic prickery,
succulent, slack, and satisfyingly satiated. All needs met; all desires rewarded; all dreams and fantasies fulfilled…
Elements of the law enforcement community today were
notified to ascertain the exact whereabouts of the fruitcake
we all know and love as E. Ike.  The fool has made yet
another move on the authorities at the La Casa bug house
after snipping his way through razor wire and tunneling
under a perimeter wall surrounding some Russet potato
patch.  Now it’s up to us to track the loonie down before
the usual parade of nonsense exposes us in the papers for
the completely incompetent boobs that we are.  Get the
picture?  The crazed setenta-narian (Spanglish for 70 year
old)  apparently left a suicide note in his padded cell
warning his zoo keeper that he would sooner die from
boredom than return to another meal of fried span for
Friday’s lunch.  The nutbag also reported that unidentified
‘voices’ had commanded him to seek out and confiscate
All Points Bulletin:                                                                                                          Exposed July 7, 2009

From the Offices of Captain Hector Ordonez Osiris Klink (Hook, remember?)
To all highway patrol vehicles in transit (whatever that means…)

                         “Covetous Fish Monger Sought in Irvine”
some sacred fish that had gotten purloined (or perhaps merely borrowed) by another equally demented meatball with the name of Dottie
something or other, who is suspected of taunting Ike via the internet with rarefied artistic antics or maybe it was antiques?
You won't believe
what apparently set him off?

Ike's email, long under surveillance by hospital security and staff, contained hundreds of bizarre memos, notes, letters etc. which have been
exchanged by the two over the years, among which was one dated July 3, 2009, in which the Dottie character attached the photo you see
above. Supposedly this painting is responsible for s
ending Ike ‘off the pier.’  Although we know little about the historical circumstances, it is
believed by those who do at La Casa that Ike has simply gone berserker over this print even though it isn’t apparently the final copy of the
work.  Black as the background is, there is something about it that meant a lot to Ike.  Now we believe he intends to ‘explore’ all avenues of
possibility--including kamikaze attacks, bribery, extortion and theft—to obtain the original before Dottie does something rash like “finish it off.”  
Unless we drop everything on our agenda in order to round up the pervert, we will never hear the last of it for as long as the grass grows and
the crows crow.

KC7032 Clear         

The smell of decaying semen has become a serious research anomaly in the wards and padded cells of the SD 109 research quadrangle.  Gobs of
the stuff are actually slithering down and drying on the screens of the PC monitors for most of the HIPP designated appointees.  As a result I have
had to instruct the custodial staff to ‘clean off’ this unanticipated dribble each morning, before it coagulates and obscures the quality of the digital
reception.  This must be done to ensure the viability, comparability and accuracy of the data collection process.  All research parameters must be
maintained within an acceptable range of variability.

The quality of much of the porn being displayed for the patients is, in my opinion, frankly rather abysmal.  I am rarely stimulated to ‘bleed the
lizard’ myself due to typically sloppy camera work and an all too frequent and obvious lack of enthusiasm displayed by the participants on screen.
Much of the sex trade online, I am forced to conclude, is simply uninspired, employing broken down scanks, over the hill bimbos, ugly hobos, and
the physiologically misshapen to perform acts devoid of anything even remotely approaching artistic consideration.  Nevertheless, the lowlife
quality of this common sexual fodder does not appear to have lessened the interest of the target patient population.  

A surprising number of ejaculations per hour have already begun to occur in the hour after the morning and noonday meal periods (when my
designer drugs are ingested surreptitiously by the subject patients.) There is little doubt any longer about that….Of course the evening hours remain
the periods of greatest “agitation” among the inmates, especially among those who congregate in the recreation rooms which have become veritable
orgies of orgasmic organ-ization.  
“Thoughts on the Evolution of a Proper Diet”
by Meldrick the Regurgitator

The Date:
               July 11, 6257 EGAD {Expressed [in the] Gibberish [of] Arcane Data}
The Place:               Babalopolis District Regional Secretariat, Amerindo sub-Continent
The Interface:        Pre-dynamic English rerun through a model p-22473 {philoquacious} universal translator…

Long ago, when vegetation ran riot over the earth, before food was domesticated, there existed vast stretches of primordial foliage whose
voracious roots penetrated deep into the mutilated soil. Mother Earth was entangled everywhere in the clutches of this monstrous and vile
concoction of fibers sucking, sucking, sucking her dry all the while. Dense foliage crept up the sides of mountains themselves and grew
inextricable even within the oceans, choking and cloaking what it could not conceivably soak up. Even where the ground was dry, in the hottest
depressions of the lowest of lands, on brackish soil strewn with rocks and stones, plants invaded and pillaged our Mother’s tender vestige like
leprous bloodsuckers upon a carcass of spoils. Vines, creepers, ravenous vegetables, bulging bushes, and all manner of carnivorous flora grew
willy-nilly everywhere, even up the sides of other plants, devouring anything in their path. Rotted scum (insidious microscopic plant-life) fouled
the ponds, lakes and streams, while leaves, stems, fallen trees and branches littered the surface, like garbage upchucked across a soggy boil.
It
was cellulose gone mad, fiber gone cyber, muck indescribable--sticky, putrid and pus-filled--and ever so dirty minded.  Into this world of piss
poor possibilities crept little slithery things called animals, the result of a long chain of mistakes aimed by a distracted Mother Nature to attempt
to control the plants. Eons of time passed as these crummy first animals evolved the capacity to nibble away at the creeping riot of foliage.
Gastric enzymes slowly took on the ability to digest vegetable matter. Elongated feeding tubes evolved into intestinal tracts capable of breaking
down the toughest of cellular fibers and finally the manure industry was born. More ages passed and the crummy animals evolved into more
efficient animals which could digest absolutely anything, even bark, roots, tubers and grubs. Things began to improve as a result. Then,
suddenly, when primitive people appeared, a massive world wide appetite for greens eventually took root and the fight was on as to what form
of life would rise to dominate the earth.  The people won.  But they paid a great price.

[Sounds of gargling a mouthwash]

You see, most people naturally preferred to eat other people--but that was a practice fraught with all manner of difficulty.  Let’s just pass over
that, OK?  Take my word for it.  Since eating your children never led to a happy and prosperous retirement, other solutions were sought.  People
eventually thought: “Maybe we can eat plants?” That’s when things really began to get better.  Naturally there were some setbacks; people
learned you can’t eat these big mushrooms with the purple tops and stuff like that.  But they finally worked it all out.  In fact, some of the stuff
they could eat would grow just about anywhere if you had enough dirty water to divert to the spot.  This led to irrigation, fields, farms and
twosh like that.  Then cities came along and finally here we are.
The rest is pretty much irrelevant.
Chapter Seven
Continue






C
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Psychiatric Records Database, Cubicle Surveillance Sub-Division
PT 109 Project Archives, La Casa Sanitarium, Irvine
Sub-topic: “Schizophrenic Episodes of King Sixty-Nine”
And related patients’ email records, compiled and recorded by the Eucalyptic Brotherhood

Memo from the Desk Computer of Odd Jim Dotty
Cubicle 13, M-Ward, La Casa Sanitarium
Tuesday, Dec 2, 2014, 10:22 AM

Van Nuys — Recent fires and subsequent mudslides in Silverado Canyon have exposed a rare lost document purported to be the ‘score card’
of that ignominious reprobate known as ‘The Chihuahua Sugar Plum’.  Discovered by a local derelict scavenging for road kill it was quickly
purchased (apparently for a $5.00 gift certificate to McDonalds) by local entrepreneur Ace "The Conniver” Turner.  The document was
hermetically sealed in a Mayonnaise jar and is said to be in pristine condition.  E-Bay and Sotheby’s are competing for rights to auction this
unique record of the Sugar Plum’s youthful conquests while Larry Flynt and Hugh Heffner are competing to locate and interview him for
their magazines.  Finding the elusive old fart is proving difficult although he is rumored to be disguised as a retired English teacher, living in
a refined middle-class neighborhood, and tending his garden.  Others suspect that he has delusions of grandeur and is stockpiling Viagra and
assorted other penile prosthetics in hopes of staging a comeback.  So far, over 75 women have come forward, seeking to discover if they are
on the list and consulting with huckster attorneys for possibilities of law suits.  Ace is quoted as bragging that he expects to “make millions”
off of this deal.  Urban anthropologists have begun studying the document and are attempting to decipher the Plum’s scoring system.  This,
of course, could have significant implications for subsequent legal action.

Email from Cubicle 7, Offices of the Eucalyptic Brotherhood
M-Ward, La Casa, Dec 2, 2014  at 11:04 AM
To: Dotty, CC Ace [in Cubicle 12]
Results of Your Query of the Data Banks at La Casa

Dear Odd Jim Dotty,
As a card carrying member of the Eucalyptic Brotherhood, you are entitled to request searches of the data banks of the Brotherhood Archives
for details, photos, documents, etc. relevant to your particular fields of inquiry. We here at the business end of the business are happy to
report that we have available the attached photos of The Plum which we have appended for your convenience. Should you require our
services in the future, feel free to contact us with questions you may have about the membership. We pride ourselves on keeping abreast of all
the latest developments.

Sincerely, Eucalyptus Ike, Archival Librarian
PhotoFilesOftheEucalypticBrotherhood…..docx
Email from Cubicle 12 to Cubicles 7 and 13
Tuesday, December 2, 2014 11:45 AM

When I learned of the presence of the Peacock Codex, which, by the way, was not uncovered in a mudslide, but rather was owned by a
woman who claimed to be an ex-lover, I contacted her and expressed my interest. After a cursory examination, we worked out a deal and the
codex was placed in a terra cotta urn that I had recently brought back from my stay in Italy. EBay and Southeby's got wind of this, but I
refused to place it up for auction. It is currently at the University awaiting verification tests. Dotty's description of Ike as a dribbling reprobate
with laughable designs on a comeback are, sadly, 100% accurate however.

Sincerely, Dr. Toad [AKA Ace, the Face from Outer Space]

Cubicle 7’s reply to Cubicle 12’s Nonsense,  Dec 2 at 11:55 AM
Dear Dr. Toad, what's sad as well as laughable is your sentence structure. "Dotty's description" is the subject of your last sentence, so the
verb phrase should have been "is, sadly, 100% accurate." Please be more careful in the future if you expect us to publish your twaddle.... By
the way, here's what a full sized picture looks like...[Photo redacted]


The plot thickens (in Cubicle 13)
Dotty To Ike, CC Ace Dec 2 at 12:22 PM

Van Nuys — As experts continue to analyze the sexual conquest files of the Chihuahua Sugar Plum it appears that he made rather copious
notes on each encounter, including  physical and psychological characteristics of the lady involved; ratings of the assorted pleasures he
derived; type and length of each activity; and location.  One clear trend emerging from these data is that Disneyland was a major stalking
ground providing an inexhaustible supply of flesh fodder for his needs. Of particular interest is the frequency with which Mr.Toad’s Wild
Ride served as a vehicle for lustful satiation of his filthy appetites.  (Note: this also raises the possibility that the involvement of Ace Turner, a
known consort of Ugh Toad himself, may include motives beyond the monetary.)  Executives and PR folk from Disney headquarters are
scurrying madly around in an attempt to minimize unfavorable publicity.
Cubicle 7 (Eucalyptic Brotherhood) to Cubicle 13 (Odd Jim Dotty)
Dec 2 at 12:47 PM

Ike found another photo of the Norwalk Peacock with the
two Linda's: Linda Earl (standing) and Linda Bonner (reclining).
Batting average was 50%.
Contents of a Memo from Cubicle 7 to All Cubicles in the M-Ward
Computer Files available to the Eucalyptic Brotherhood

Dec 2, at 12:38 PM
After months of slogging through word files and photo albums on Ike's computer, I have assembled individual Word Files for the entire La
Casa project. Since the on-line HTML  pages of "Letters from the Asylum" are too large to print out, I have organized each chapter in two
parts: the Left Side, and the Right Side. Chapter One, "Oddballs at Odds," for example, can be printed out in two parts, one for the left side of
the screen page, and another for the right side of the screen page. I cannot imagine, personally, anyone wanting to do this, since the whole
shebang is readable online, but the option is available if you wish. I can send each individual file via a single email...and since there are now
15 chapters, each with two parts, it would take 30 emails to capture the whole deal. There are also 7 Word Files available for the entire email
history for the 7 years from 2005 through 2011. Naturally, all this would eat up a whole lot of ink and give your printer a terrific workout. To
hold all these pages takes two three-ring binder notebooks, each 2 inches thick...On a strictly personal note, for me this activity was a labor of
love, and I refer to these notebooks often with sheer delight. What we have done together is, in my opinion, not
only exceptionally funny, and
a marvelous record of computer facilitated interaction and joint literary collaboration, but also an historical reminder of the intimate details of
our lives. Although no one outside of this institution will ever be able to understand the many and various subtleties of association and
memory these pages contain, at least we can, and that is good enough for me...       
Tyrone

Cubicle 12 Replies to Cubicle 7 Dec 2 at 1:06 PM
Good job, Ike. Thanks for being the engine that fueled the fluff. Is your website still up?

Ike To Ace Dec 2  at 1:34 PM
Try it; you'll like it...
http://www.eucalyptusike.com/LettersFromAsylum/Chapter14CuriousCaseOfAceContd.html

metanoia
Cubicle 13 [Dotty] to Cubicles 7 and 12, Dec. 3 at 11:12 AM

Concerted efforts by the drivel scribes of La Casa to construct a psychohistory of King 69 are limited by the confounding of myth, lore and
fact which surround this enigmatic low-bred savage.  It does seem probable that his bloodlines are directly linked to two other ignoble
personae, The Chihuahua Sugar Plum and The Norwalk Peacock, but they too are cloaked in braggadocio, self-delusion and prevarication,
and there is little hope of unearthing any semblance of unvarnished truth.  It is, however, well documented that for a brief period of time there
was a dilapidated old junker in the employee’s parking lot at Disneyland, strategically positioned to be viewed by ‘paying guests’ on the
Monorail Ride.  And that crudely scrawled with broad brush and white paint across the entire top of this vehicle was the proud tag “King 69”.
Currently pacing his cell in the inner sanctum of La Casa is an overweight old slubberdegullion who claims to be King 69.  While this
assertion may well be simply delusions of grandeur it would be helpful in planning his therapy if all possibilities could be fully examined.  
Anyone having information relevant to this issue is asked to please contact Little Brother Excruciate (Cubicle 16) at La Casa.
cryptomurk
Email from Dotty to Cubicle 16, 12/3 at 11:51 AM

Dear Brother Excruciate:
We here at ‘EXORCISMS-R-US’ specialize in the kinds of problems you describe in your recent notice.  For a nice princely fee we would be
happy to provide our services and to rid your hapless  patient of his delusions.  Coincidently, we have just received a fresh supply of Cogno-
leeches from our gluten-free organic supplier and are well-prepared to initiate treatment immediately.

Sincerely,
Dr. Pokey I. Lucre, CEO and Founder


Fraud alert
Email from Dotty’s Cubicle (13) to Cubicle 16 Little Brother Excruciate
CC Ike (7) and Ace (12)  
12/3 at 12:12 PM

Dear Liittle Brother Excruciate:
I must strongly urge you to have nothing to do with that charlatan, the so-called Dr. Pokey I. Lucre.  He recently convinced me that his ’
Stewed Oil of Foreskin’ potion would ensure significant penis growth and long-lasting erections.  Instead, my weenie fell off. A disconsolate
eunuch who chooses to remain anonymous
gmail complaint department
Cubicle 7 [Ike] to Cubicle 12 [Ace] CC Dotty [13]
12/3 at 2:19 PM
To whom it may concern:
As a frequent visitor to Ace's Google G-mail site, I am both
dissatisfied and disappointed with the paltry and clueless
contributions made by others, including Ace, who are
supposed to be contributors to the success of the project. If
I wanted to see photos of birds, snakes, rats, bats, and
worms--as well as toad crap--I would open any number of
source books in my library, which I do when I am bored to
death with life, other people and the so-called American
Dream.  Is there anyone out there--either friend or
foe--who has any artistic talent and writing ability left to
share with others less fortunate? Please make an effort to
be less than boring if not downright insipid, infantile, and
puerile. Otherwise, I will be forced to cancel my
subscription...
Cubicle 12, Ace To Cubicle 7, Ike,  CC Dotty [13]
12/3 at 2:48 PM
Thank you for your email, Mr. Ike. It has been placed in a queue up a rat's ass where it shall stay unmolested (except via rat anal sex) for the
lifespan of said rat's life, until, upon said rat's death, it shall be burned in a large smelly heap along with other horrid things in an incinerator
somewhere in Vernon, California.

The Proof is in the Pudding(2)
Offices of the Eucalyptic Brotherhood [Ike, Cubicle 7] To Dotty (13) CC Ace (12)
12/3 at 3:21 PM

Snarky and insidious rumors have begun to surface lately in multiple attempts to blacken and tarnish the reputation of the eminent Lothario
once known as The Chihuahua Sugar Plum, AKA Eucalyptus Ike, The Norwalk Peacock, Shy Bird etc. Among the many scurrilous and
outlandish mistruths now being exaggerated and circulated is the notion that the peacock (Sugar Plum etc.) fathered untold numbers of
bastards which he abandoned along the road of life along with old cars, clothes, hats, books, furniture, appliances and so forth. However,
contained deep within the most intimate archival photo albums of the Eucalyptic Brotherhood among many other of his treasured  possessions
like dildos, vibrators, filthy pictures and so forth, was the attached photo apparently taken in his thirties, which provides unmistakable
evidence that the Sugar Plum had paid for and received, from the obtuse and relentless medical profession, a vasectomy, shocking as that
news may prove to be to his prevaricating and jealous detractors, his x-lovers and old sexual partners in general.  [IkesVasectomy.jpg  Photo
redacted]

Quacks like Dr. Pokey I. Lucre, CEO of Exorcisms-R-Us, who seek to profit from the disabilities of those who would walk in the footsteps
of the Peacock, like the dickless remains of poor Brother Excruciate [Cubicle 16], do not deserve anything but our profound expression of
disgust, disfavor, distrust and dismemberment. Let this be a warning to their ilk. Their membership will be cancelled, and they will no longer
remain on our mailing lists...     


Dotty [13] to Ike [7] CC Ace [12]
12/3 at 3:50 PM
Careful scientific analysis by crack Urologist I.P. Freely, using the most advanced microphotogmy techniques, provides conclusive proof that
the purported evidence is unconvincing—this was not a vasectomy but a badly failed attempt at penile extension.

Dotty [13] to himself [13]  CC Ike [7] Ace [12]
Dec 4, 2014, 11:05 AM,
I must respectfully disagree with my esteemed colleague Dr. I. P. Freely.  This has all the markings of an amateur do-it-yourself balls
transplant.  Probably an abortive attempt to enhance his diminishing virility and fear of impotence by replacing his puny gonads with the
testicles of a wild boar in its prime.  
Dr. Mack “The Knife” Slashmogul


Dotty To Ike CC Ace
12/4 at 11:43 AM
Although adverse to publicity and tooting my own horn I feel that I must intervene in this professional dispute.  I, myself, performed the
surgery on the ill-famed Mr. Eucalyptus Ike.  This was necessitated by an attempted castration initiated by his spouse.  Enraged by his
incessant philandering, she attacked his bullock-cud with a butter knife,  shearing scissors, and a keenly honed gardening trowel.  I must say,
it took all of my considerable skills to restore his scrotum to its natural state.  Given all the damage incurred I suspect that the wounds may
also have served as an effective vasectomy.  I trust this serves as the final word on this matter.  

Pithy “Moneybags” Idiom, MD, PhD, MBA, MFA, MS, MA, BS, BA, CPA, etc., Cosmetic Surgeon to the Stars.
Cubicle 7 to Cubicles 12, 13

From: the Law Offices of Gloria Allready
To: Little Brother Excruciate at La Casa.
Subject: The Whereabouts of King Sixty-nine

It has come to my attention that you and other unnamed persons are currently actively seeking information, both online and elsewhere, about
an individual apparently known only as King 69. Although we believe this person was once an employee at the Disneyland Theme Park in
Anaheim, and we are also interested in determining his whereabouts, there is little factual data available either publically or in the personnel
files at Disneyland to provide clues as to his true identity or current residence.

The situation:
For close to thirty years, one after another, some 60 women of assorted ages, backgrounds, and financial circumstances, who themselves
once worked at Disneyland, have come forward in our offices with requests seeking the same information. Where is this guy? They almost all
insist that they are determined to hire a private investigator to conduct discrete inquiries in order to find him or what’s left of him. As
employees at the Theme Park, they claim they worked as ride operators, tour guides, ticket sellers, food service employees, or clerks in the
various Emporiums, or in the Operations Division at the park. They have represented themselves mostly as workers in Frontierland,
Tomorrowland, Fantasyland or along Main Street, and that while in that employment the met and were intimately involved with, at one time
or another, this mysterious individual.  

Their stories also bear a striking resemblance, the elements of which can be gleaned from the following.
They claim they were approached initially in a break area at the park, or in the employee cafeteria, by a tall, dark complected, and quite
handsome male, dressed either in a Monorail uniform or as a conductor on the Steam Train ride. They agree that he seemed supremely
confident without being overbearing, that he was exceptionally direct without being crude or blunt, and that he had the most engaging smile  
that was both mesmerizing and beguiling in its effect. They furthermore agree that his eyes were a dark brown flecked with tiny gold rings,
and that looking into them was simply an enormously pleasurable experience. “His eyes just sparkled with approval and delight,” was a
description offered by some 27 of the women independently of one another.

Curiously, all of the women admitted they were aware he was propositioning them even before he knew their name, but that he did so in a
manner that was not only not offensive, but was actually quite flattering.  In fact, he seemed somehow to know what they really wanted even
before they did. What is even more curious about this group of women is the fact that they all agreed he was a most extraordinary lover.
Furthermore, once this topic was broached, they tended to go on and on about it, often launching into the most intimate and private of details.
Several of the women, for example, remembered that he casually remarked about “the Slope Mount” leading to “Kundalini penetration,” and
so forth. Most reported he was able to “wiggle” or “vibrate” his erection, he was capable of very high speed thrusts and withdrawals, without
injuring them, and that these techniques and others led them to experience profoundly exquisite orgasms, often multiple orgasms, that lasted
far longer than those to which they were previously accustomed.

Given that these accounts were all freely provided and recorded in affidavits (under oath) there seems little reason to suspect a conspiracy to
defame anyone about anything. Therefore, no legal action or litigation is to be assumed or construed to be forthcoming due to this inquiry. We
are simply seeking to determine the identity and/or whereabouts of the aforementioned male, in order to provide our clients with the
information they seek. Therefore, I can assure you that anything you can say positively about these matters that would help will be treated
with the strictest of confidence.

Sincerely, Gloria…
CC Ace [12] Ike [7] Dec 4 at 2:49 PM

Dear Ms. Allready:
I feel compelled to inform you of a recent incident involving the alleged King 69 who is a patient here at La Casa.  He had been in a comatose
state for several days, taking no food or water, and being sustained by an IV drip of whiskey and cheap red wine.  While checking in on him,
in a whispered aside to an aide, I mentioned your name.  All of a sudden he sat upright, began foaming and frothing at the mouth with copious
gobs of mucus dripping from his nose.  He then began literally bouncing off the walls—in vertical and sideways leaps of 5-6 feet-- while
emitting this horrible vituperate wail and jacking off all the while.  So far it has been impossible to calm him down.  An anthropological
colleague has noted that his behavior is remarkably similar to the Zulu Hex Whammy, a sacred ritual reserved for preparing to kill and
mutilate one's most hated and despicable enemy. It seems reasonable to conclude that he doesn’t like you. Thus, for our patient’s welfare we
will not be able to cooperate with your inquiry in any way.
Sincerely,
Little Brother Excruciate [16]


Please be advised
Cubicle 7 To Cubicle 13, CC Cubicle 12
Dec. 4 at 4:43 PM

From: Gloria Allready, Attorney at Law
To: La Casa Sanitarium, Irvine,
Office of the Superintendent,/ President

Dear Sir,
Please forward this communication personally to Little Brother Excruciate, as he has refused to respond to legally court sanctioned requests
for information.

Dear Little Brother Excruciate,
I am very sorry to hear of the deplorable condition into which the person in question has fallen. My interest in the matter is purely
professional, I can assure you, as I am beyond the menopausal stage and have long since given up any hope of meeting a male who isn't
cruel, cheap, chintzy and unappreciative of females in general. My professional career has taught me that most men, especially rich men, think
woman are merely toys to be discarded like cheap baggage once the shine has worn off. That you personally might be allowed to understand
the interest my clients have in this individual's welfare, I have attached an affidavit supplied by client #27, which should assuage any doubts
you might have about punitive damages following litigation etc. etc. etc. Anything more you can tell us about The King will be cherished by
my clients who are willing and financially capable of attending to his personal problems with sympathy, love and compassion.

Sincerely, Gloria  
PS: My clients just want to hear that he is OK...and to let him know they still love him....  
AffidavitNumber27.docx

Official File from the Law Offices of Gloria Allready, an Affidavit recorded orally and transcribed by Evangeline O’Kelly Gaspodin on October
18, 1986.

All information provided here was taken under oath from an anonymous female client #27, concerning the matter of an unknown male
employee referred to as King Sixty-nine, who allegedly once worked at Disneyland.

[Sounds of a tape recorder being turned on and people shuffling in their seats]

Well, it all began at a party I heard about in the time shack at the Harbor Gate employee’s entrance to the park. I had just gotten off work one
evening and, after punching my time card out, I glanced over to the note board where I saw directions to a party at one of those apartments
on Malual Street behind the Disneyland Hotel. And I thought “why not?” So I tootled over there in my VW Bug, parked nearby and strolled
up to the apartment.

I recognized most of the people there as employees like myself (I was 21 then and working as a ticket seller in Fantasyland, near Mr. Toad’s
Wild Ride). [Sounds of throat clearing.] Anyway, a lot of the other kids were college students from Oklahoma who came to the park to work
during the summer vacation months. There were lots of sweepers and ride operators including two mermaids from the Submarine Lagoon
ride. I remember I was standing alone in the middle of the front room when a tall dark stranger I’d never seen before approached me, leaned
close and said: “Any chance you’re looking for some hot action tonight?” He was very good looking and had these large brown eyes that
seemed to twinkle like Christmas tree ornaments in the soft light. Naturally, I was so startled that all I could think of to say was
“I’m in my period…”  He looked at me sort of disappointed like, and a little sad, and said “I’m sorry, but since you’re out of commission, I
guess I’ll try my luck with that blond mermaid over there.” God, I was so embarrassed!

Next thing I knew he had crossed the room to the kitchen area where four guys were all trying to get the attention of the mermaid. But they
took one look at him and simply melted away until he was left alone with her, all smiles and obviously enjoying his attention. Next thing I
saw she wrote something down on a slip of paper and handed it to him, and then he smiled at her and just up and left. [sounds of sighing and
nose blowing]. That’s when I made up my mind. So I followed him a short two blocks to another apartment building where he went upstairs
to the second floor and entered what I later learned was his apartment.

By now I knew what I was going to do, so I marched right up and knocked on his god dammed door. It opened, he took one look at me,
smiled and said: “I thought you were out of commission?” I just walked right passed him and entered the room. “I’m not,” I said, “You just
took me by surprise.” He laughed, and then led me into the bedroom and said in a completely natural tone of voice: “OK, take off your clothes
and get on the bed.”

It’s hard to explain why I did just that. But I’ll try. You have to understand that he was so direct, so honest and so good looking that it was
refreshing. There was no pretense, no baloney, no insincerity about him. You could see that. And he was so confident and self assured that
you didn’t want to disappoint him. You just knew he was very experienced, which made you all the more curious…And, actually, I still didn’t
even know his name. Well, thirty minutes later, I didn’t care what his name was either, because he was like a god… in bed.


I know, I know, I can see you’re looking at me like I’m some kind of airhead nitwit who had fallen into the clutches of a perverted sexual
maniac, but I’m telling you it wasn’t anything like that. He was gentle, kind, very considerate and extremely competent at what he did. He
played upon a woman’s body like it was an orchestral instrument, and he understood every note, every curve and every nerve. No matter
what he did, and I can assure you he did “everything,” he made it all seem so natural, so healthy, and so completely and utterly correct, that
you just couldn’t help yourself. You felt free, wonderful and safe and you had absolutely no thought of resistance because it was
perfect…just perfect… while it lasted…

The hard part came later when you learned that nobody could own him or keep him all for them self. And partly this was your own fault.

You see, I couldn’t wait to tell my girlfriends about what happened. And that was a big, big mistake. Sure enough, first one of them (sounds
of snuffling and weeping) and then the other snuck over to his apartment to check it out. Of course, I later learned that was a fairly typical
reaction for lots of young women who shared his bed. Still, I spent several wonderful nights with him before everyone had to make an
appointment several weeks in advance. That’s when we knew he was going through two or three women every night…all summer long…

Anyway, it’s now more than twenty years later, and I still think about him once in a while. His lean, muscular, athletic body haunts me late at
night, and I occasionally dream about him and his long artistic fingers, caressing me, tickling me, preparing me for Kundalini penetration in
the slope mount position…No, I’m not going to tell you about that, so stop asking. That part is private, and I have no intention of going into
it. You’ll just have to figure that out for yourself…

So what’s it going to cost me to hire someone to find him? I want to know all about that before I write the check….[sounds of the tape
recorder being turned off].  
Pussy Whip Replies
Cubicle 13 [Dotty] To Ike [Cubicle 7] CC Ace [12] Dec 5 at 12:23 PM

Dear Ms. Allready:
I am currently employed as a filing clerk at La Casa and in that capacity saw your inquiry to Little Brother Excruciate.  Many years ago I
worked as a ride operator on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at Disneyland.  I came from a small town in Oklahoma and moved to California with
aspirations of being a movie star.  I was a naive and needy young women with especially large and well-shaped breasts.  I first encountered
the self-described ‘King 69’ in the Fantasyland employee’s break area.  I can assert unequivocally that the physical description of him
provided by the women you represent is not consistent with my observations and experience.  He was not at all handsome—a long crooked
nose that sat on his face like a banana slug; beady eyes with the countenance of a starving cobra eyeing a fat mouse; thin ragged lips always
hosting the remains of his most recent meal; long black wiry hairs sprouting from his ears, nose and various other unexpected places; a breath
that conjured up images of putrefied pig vomit; and the overall appearance of something resulting from multiple generations of Appalachian
inbreeding. Although I found everything about him repulsive, he managed to convince me that he was directing an important new
experimental play titled “Who Put The Miracle In The Miracle Whip” and that he could cast me in the female lead role as “Pussy Whip”.  He
then invited me over to his apartment to read the script.  Upon arrival, with no ceremony whatsoever, I found myself splayed on his ‘casting
couch’ suffering every indignity one could imagine.  He is not a skilled lover.  He is a crude, bestial, filthy muckdipper who views any form
of foreplay as an act of begging and tries to find the thing you most dislike and impose it on you.  In my case, he was obsessed with licking
my ass. Given all this, something seems rather fishy about the sample of women you claim extol his virtues and have such pleasurable
memories.  I trust you will keep this communication in strictest confidence as I would not like to lose my job.
Sincerely, Barbie Doll
Huh?
Cubicle 7 to Dotty [13] CC Ace [12] Dec. 5 at 3:59 PM

Dear Ms Barbie Doll,
I have only one question. If you found him so terribly ugly, smelly,  
and so horribly repulsive, HOW did he managed to convince you about
anything, let alone traveling to his place of residence alone, entering,
and sticking around to have your ass licked? Both my clients and I
would really be interested in hearing you try to explain that.

Otherwise, we find your pathetic groupie squishy account to be
beyond human experience and understanding. By the way, we would
also like to see what you look like...after making up a tattle tale like
that....So you see, really, it is your story that smells, not ours...

By the way, we do have a photo. Do you?
Gloria
depending upon your point of view...
Cubicle 7 To Dotty [13]CC Ace [12] Dec. 5 at 3:35 PM

It appears we are experiencing an objectionable correlative or something out of a Kurosawa movie... like Rashomon. See attachment
Ike

AffidavitNumber29.docx
Official Files from the Law Offices of Gloria Allready
An Affidavit recorded and transcribed by Evangeline O’Kelly Gaspodin on September 18, 1987.

All information recorded under oath from an anonymous female client #29, concerning an unidentified male employee known as King Sixty-
nine, who allegedly also worked at Disneyland.

I was 18 years older than he was then; he was just 26. [Sounds of giggling] But I guess you already know that. So let me start from the
beginning, because you  asked me to tell you “Why?” I had been working at Disneyland for close to eight years as a clerk, in costume, at the
Main Street Emporium. All the clerks then wore these old fashioned long dresses that fell to below the ankles. But they were tight fitting and
revealed a woman’s figure, if she had one. I did. When I walked down Main Street on the way to the employee’s cafeteria, I used to get
whistled at by guests all the time. Not only that, but several of the Park Supervisors working out of the Old City Hall would follow me when
they could, just to stare at my behind… if you know what I mean. [More sounds of giggling.] I was pretty sick and tired of married men
trying to get some nookie on the side, so I had stopped dating about three years before that. I kept to myself and went home alone every night
to my apartment behind the old Disneyland Hotel. After two failed marriages to a couple of “total pricks,” I preferred to live alone. In fact, I
even enjoyed it. I could do what I wanted when I wanted, and nobody was around to make things difficult.  

Anyway, one summer evening there was a faint knock on my apartment door.  I lived on the first floor, so I thought it was probably one of
the neighbors wanting to borrow sugar or something. That happened a lot because there were six other park employees, mostly ticket sellers
and waitresses, living around there. So I opened the door, in my bathrobe. Beyond the screen door, which I always kept locked, was this
young man--tall, dark and dressed in some kind of green overalls with the letters MLCS stuck on them. I recognized him immediately because
I’d seen him in the cafeteria in a steam train conductor’s costume.

I said, “So…what?” kind of abruptly, while giving him my best hard nose stare.  He looked right into my eyes for a little while and finally
said, “Hi, I’m Tyrone. I live a couple blocks away, and I was just thinking maybe I could come in and watch television with you.”

“Jesus,” I thought, “what the Hell is this shit!” But, you know, for some reason I just said, “Sure kid, come on in; I’ll make some popcorn…”
And that was that. So he comes in and we both sit down on the day bed across from the TV. He doesn’t say a thing, not a word. He just
smiles at me, kind of hang dog like, and innocent, and we watch “I Love Lucy” together.  So I get up and make some popcorn and we watch
something else. All the while he doesn’t say a thing, not even small talk. And he doesn’t make a pass either. So pretty soon I’m thinking,
“what’s the matter with me? Have I lost my stuff?”  So I get up and say, “You know, I wasn’t expecting anyone; that’s why I’m in my robe.
I’m going to put something else on.” He smiles at me and says, “OK,” like why should that matter to him? So I go into the bedroom, comb
my hair, put on something discreet but slinky, and slap on a bit of makeup. Then I go back out and sit down just a little bit closer to
him. Still,
he doesn’t seem to notice, and he doesn’t say a thing.  “What is it with this kid?” I think to myself. “Is he dense or just stupid?”


Now I’m really curious, so I lean back to get a better look at him while he’s watching TV.  That’s when I notice he’s really quite handsome
in spite of the dumb outfit. His hair is short and tidy, his brown eyes are surrounded by long dark lashes, his jaw line is firm and his skin is
clear and well tanned. And although he seemed skinny at first that was deceptive. He was actually well built, with long legs and arms, and he
smelled nice--fresh and wholesome like faintly scented soap.

That’s when, on impulse, I put my arm around him and rested my hand on his left shoulder. I don’t know what I was expecting, because
frankly I can’t remember. But I do know I wasn’t expecting what happened next. He leaned in toward me, gave me a little kiss on the cheek,
and said he had to go because he had to get up early for work tomorrow. “Well,” I thought, “that’s just great…” So I say, “OK,” like why
should I care, and he backs away and starts to leave. At the door, he asks, “Can I come over again tomorrow?” And I shrug and say, “Why
not, I’m not doing anything.”  Then, he leaves.

All day at work, the next day, I can’t get him out of my head. I think this, I think that, but mostly I think “What would it be like to have him
lying next to me in bed!” Jesus, I could still smell him, and see his dark brown eyes looking into mine…from on top of me.  I was wet just
thinking about it. And by God, I meant to have him, no matter what.

To make a long story short, he showed up about eight o’clock, knocked, and I let him in. All the way in. I’m not sure when he began to take
charge, but by then it really didn’t matter. We spent the night together, first me on top, then him, and since he never seemed to get tired, we
went at it so many times I don’t remember. He took me everywhere there was to be taken, I sure remember that. And thinking about that
later, I realized he knew a lot more about women than I knew about men.

He had read me like a book from the get go. He saw right through me from the minute I first opened the door in my bathrobe. He had
watched me walking in and out of the employee’s cafeteria and added everything up. I was ripe for the plucking, only I didn’t know it. I had
given up, and thought I had cashed in my chips, but he knew better, and he also knew how to bring me around. But, honestly, I don’t regret
what happened one bit. If fact, I’m actually grateful, even though I never saw him in that way again…

Later, I married a guy who I liked, an engineer with an excellent job, and we had a good life together until he died about two years ago. Since
then, I often think about Tyrone and wonder what happened to him. About two weeks ago, I got a letter from an old girlfriend I worked with
at Disneyland, and she told me she also had a brief affair with him, but she thought his real name was King something or other.  So, we
compared stories and realized we had both actually slept with the notorious King 69, who was like, well, almost a legendary lover in the park
at that time.

Now you know why. So when can I expect to hear the results of the investigation? I’m willing to pay the $15,000.00, but I want results, if
you know what I mean…
Cubicle 12 [Ace] To Ike [7] CC Dotty [13] Dec 5 at 4:37 PM
Offices of Ninnylandia Superior Court
Chief Justice, Ugh Toad

Dear Sirs:
It has come to my attention that a nasty spat has broken out between Messrs. Odd Jim dotty and Eucalyptus Ike regarding dubious ancient
conquests, and that elaborate and far-fetched fictions are now being created and tossed about to exaggerate or disparage said conquests
(whatever may be the case).My office staff (Tammy, Crystal, Emma, Rachel, Cindy, Allison, Sandra and I) has concluded that although said
spat involves various pseudonyms and aliases (e.g., Gloria Allready, Little Brother Excruciate, etc.) , this is really nothing more than a 50 year
old dick-swinging contest from two former lotharios now way past their prime and of zero erectile functionality. My office orders you both
to either produce photographic evidence of said "King 69’s" vehicle or cease and desist such flaccid argumentation on the basis of such puny
[non-existing] evidence.

Ribet,
The Honorable Chief Justice of the Peace, Ugh Toad, L.M., LL.M., LL.B. and LL.D.   


Cubicle 7 [Ike], To Cubicle 12 [Ace], CC Dotty [Cubicle 13],
Dec 5 at 10:26 PM
A Tactful Reminder for your consideration

Dear Jurisprudence, Keeper of all the Pieces…
It appears that part time employment on your part has prevented you from remaining fully connected and informed of the specific plot
structure associated with the current project. In addition, to be more specific, you seem to have overlooked important procedural memos
such as the attached, which clearly support the obligation of participants to express themselves in a manner consistent with their mutually
approved literary and pathological insecurities [op. cit. “Chapter Four: The Plot Thickens,” column One). Also, it would be wise (of you) to
memorize the italicized advice in the attachment below which you seem to have absorbed in spite of yourself and your many absurd and
irrelevant admirers, i.e. "Tammy, Crystal, Emma, Rachel, Cindy, Allison and Sandra. Meddling in the schizophrenic delusions of your fellow
business partners is, of course, always encouraged as long as your intentions are dis-approved in advance.

Cordially,
Ike  

Attachment #1: From the Cubicle (studiette) of Odd Jim Dotty
To:  Ace Turner

I received the invaluable new cracker code yesterday and concluded it will prove of inestimable value for future internal x-socialized problem
solving.  We simply must keep in touch while the germ bin festers and the products seem sparse.  I continue to spend 8-10 hours a day
painting and carving.  The writing consists largely of fragments and notes to myself which are slow to reach coherence and minimally
acceptable levels of communicative competence.  I will get out the memo outlining proposed contents of Artsy Fartsy in near future.  Am
somewhat slowed by neurotic need to remember stuff (i.e., chronologies; precepts and canons; motifs; enactments, etc.).

Egad 'The Mule' of the Doggone tribe (an unacknowledged bastard son of Woton) is gathering a legion of barristers to legally establish his
paternity and guarantee his rightful inheritance.  Expect litigation regarding hereditary succession at some point.  J. Edgar Snoopy seems to
have developed some interest in the Ickanus case (there is suspicion that he and Brother Ickanus may have once been lovers) and has issued
memos identifying Shylock Chan as a 'Commie-Kike-Chink' out to destroy the American way.  I hope to contribute to work being conducted
by Office of Acronymics (O.A.) but progress has been slowed by propensity for divergent thought (i.e., O.O.Z.E  - Organ Odors from
Zoological Effluvia; O.F.F.A.L. - Otiose Facility For Ass Licking, etc).  Am hoarding evidence of replication gone awry--not sure where that
might lead.  Occurs to me that there may evolve periods of 'parallel play' where interactive responsiveness seems unduly delayed or non-
existent.  But that's ok.

Loopy wordplay and self-contradictory arguments can always be invoked to extricate oneself from the mire of dire straits and to rejoin the
absurdist ramble in praise of sweet madness and ironic confabulation.  Hope all continues well at the Casa.  Club Jimmie is undergoing a bit of
rehabilitation but should be sparkling soon and ready to receive all sad-sack knights in their Barber's-basin helmets as they quest for sly self-
mocking tropes and revelations.

ojd


Catching my breath
[7] to [13, [12] Dec 6, 3:30 PM

It's been quite a week at this end of the electronic tubeway. Things have been hectic, dyslectic and peptically ulcerous. So I'm working on
Saturday to try and catch up. The M-Ward participants have been yelling at me for months to make sense of their home room assignments,
which they claim have been unnecessarily arbitrary from the inception of the PT 109 Project. So, I have taken the liberty of setting those
down in concrete conundrums. Most of you will discover that you are still where you always were; thus, your digs won't be changing at all.
However, from now on, nobody but you will be able to muscle in to your cubicle any longer, because it is now designated for your exclusive
use only (see the attachment). I recommend that you print it out for references purposes. This crappy obligation has always been just my
responsibility for some insane reason, so I am not going to be clever, diplomatic or courteous with those who suspect they have somehow
been slighted. However, if I have left anyone of genuine importance out, please explain who and why they are important, because I am not in
a mood to dick around with newbie groupie nobodies the likes of which include Gloria Allready and her tribe of pinheads; Baron Slicknuts,
the Euro-Putz; Ms Barbie Doll smuck noodle;  Dr. Mack "The knife" Slushmogul, and his
girlfriend, Pithy "Moneybags" Idiot, M D, PhD,
MBA, MFA, MS, MA, BS, BA, CPA, etc., the so-called Cosmetic Surgeon to the Stars. We do not assign homerooms to asswipe, at least
not until
they prove themselves worthy of our impeccable sub-standards.

The current project summary (as I see it, naturally) is also attached. I have tried to weed out most of the mindless drivel and boil down the
slop that was left to a bare minimum. I hope this meets with your collective approval. If not I have been made aware lately of a rat's ass with
a queue up it, where you can send your letters of complaint etc.

Collecting emails and arranging them in chronological order, as you well know, has always been a mindless exercise involving too many To's,
From's, CC's, Dates, Times, and so forth, which collectively tend to clutter up passages of dialogue/narrative, making it more difficult to
follow who said what, or wrote what, and when. This practice has been made especially cumbersome because we tend also to assign
passages to other characters:  for example,

Memo from Dotty to Ike, CC Ace, "The Plot Thickens," Dec. 12, 2013, at 3:30 PM.
Dear Shithead [Barbie Doll], you forgot to wipe the shit off your mouth after you said what you said.
Sincerely, An anonymous fan...

Given the new home room assignments this can now be simplified to:
Memo from [13] to (7), (12) on 12/12 at 3:30 PM
The Plot Thickens [in Cubicle 13]
Dear Shithead [Barbie Doll {since she has no home room assignment}], you forgot to wipe the shit off your mouth after you said what you
said.
Sincerely, An anonymous fan...


Naturally, it will take some time for everyone to relearn after they unlearn what they now know, so the current plot summary I have attached
provides some exposure to the new system.
I [7] hope this also meets with everyone's approval...[12,13, 16 etc]

Sincerely, [7]
2 Attachments
Cubicle Assignments in the M-Ward.docx
Episodes in the Life and Times of King Sixty.docx
Doktor Jekyll H. Toad [12]
Curator of the Acton Gmail Archive and
Director, Frankenstein Institute for Motion Gif Slickness
La Casa University, Acton Satellite Campus
Subject: The Siphy Oscar  

Before I make up other matters, I want to take this opportunity to congratulate you on
your recent reception of the Siphy Oscar/Trophy for Limitless Motion Madness. The
Academy, in my view, made an excellent decision to honor you for your many fine
and well crafted contributions to the visual arts in general and cinematography in
particular. Your minimalist Decoder Ring dramas, packed as they are with maximum
compression of universal themes and undying heartfelt human emotions, will be
remembered long after you are returned to the dust of eternal bliss and redemption.
For far too long the outside world and the rest of the planets have turned a blind eye to
the many stoic individuals such as yourself who have labored selflessly, tirelessly and
needlessly in the vineyard of creative madness to bring into this malign pigsty of a
reality some semblance of sanity and humanity. We all want you to know that your
efforts have not been entirely ignored, useless and in vain.

By the way, for our files here at Ike’s Photosynthesis Labs, we would dearly
appreciate a really good still photo of the Crab Nebula Monster you featured in a
recent gif.  You know, the two headed crab thing that comes like an ejaculation gone
sour from the depths of a black holed sewer terminal somewhere out there in Acton-
NoWheresVille, California.

We could snip it out of the gif ourselves, but we suspect your archive has a cleaner,
clearer version. In this case, clarity is of the utmost importance, especially with
respect to the stalk eyes on the creature. As we have an important assignment for
those eyeballs, for which you will receive screen credits, rest assured we intend to
keep you fully informed of all the pertinent side effects: rashes, diarrhea, vomiting,
shortness of breath etc. Your conscientious reciprocity in this regard will be greatly
appreciated.

With all due respect and our most astucious applause, again bravo and congratulations
on the award.

Sincerely,
Eucalyptus Ike, Janitor

PS: the Siphy Oscar is, of course, named after Sisyphus, The King of Corinth doomed
forever to roll a stone up a hill in Hades… Thus, hath it not also been stipulated by the
Great La Casa Theoretician, Father Harassus Mysticus, that “What the right hand
giveth the left hand do taketh away.”
La Casa Interplanatery Memo
From:  Icky Indignatious, Acting Chairman of the Nomenclature Adjustments Tribunal
To :     The Honorable Odd Jim Dotty, Summa Cum Magma Chamber, ex officio Mango-gnosis,
Holy Trinitarian of Thesis/Antithesis/Synthesis

Having only recently been promoted to the chairmanship of the litigious Committee for N.A.T.s, following the timely demise of the previous
chairman (Father Ronnie, the Flemish Fulminator) I take this opportunity to introduce myself to you (a founding father and card carrying charter
member) in the hope that you will discover in our communications something to be [somehow] to your advantage. What, I have no clue.  
Nevertheless, an issue of vital concern to the La Casa Community has abruptly erupted onto the fulmination screens of the more radically
conservative members of our organization which I believe will be of mutual interest to you (as it is to me, of course).  I refer, naturally, to the
unpretentious clamor associated with the proposed title for Chapter 12: "Return to Poker Flat."

Although some trivial ground breaking work has already proceeded cautiously toward the apex of this re-termination, there does appear to be an
accretion of slag gumming up the works, if I may be allowed the privilege of mixing my metaphors so to speak.  So far, only two modest
contributions have been mashed or trashed up as of this point in time, and there are tribunal members who have expressed deep regret as well as
concern about the viability/ topicality/ opportunity/ and timeliness of the project. This logjam (aka bottleneck, revanchist maneuver, abjurgation,
ploy, ruse, tactic, gambit, depending upon whom you are undressing) is the result of the usual unremarkable concatenation of external
complications including home repairs, illness, depression, illegal medications, sloth, indifference, and the generally non-proportional persiflage
for which the tribunal is, as you know, unfortunately well known.

In an effort to circumvent the necessity for a full blown frontal assault upon the recalcitrant factions, it has been proposed [by secret ballot] that
we scrap the entire 250,000 pages of the preliminary gag  order, in order to seek an entirely new consensus concerning the project. Naturally,
this means we are going to have to proceed piece by piece, step by step, and rule by rule, giving the finger where necessary as an indication of
our butt-er-moist dis-approval.

Naturally those of us determined to avoid the usual clog in the cloaca intend to do our uttermost to avoid even a hint of nascent fuzziness or
mediocre mimesis, as we endeavor to explore the literary implications of limitless space where absolutely nothing is holy. Let us not allow
ourselves to be the victims of the limitations imposed upon us by minimalist computer monitors or a decline in our measly sensory apparatus,
gonads etc., but instead seek to attain the noumena of nubile nobility
for which our forefathers stormed even the ramparts of heaven, Plymouth
Rock and all adjacent Indian lands to attain.  

Lest we forget our most sacred motto:         Δ   q     Δ    p    ≥     ћ     [Kronos]
Albuquerque Ledger: All the news that’s fit to print
Dateline: Truth or Consequences, New Mexico

                         
      Rabbit Hunters Manage to Bag Each Other in Wacko Hunting Accident
Authorities are investigating a bizarre hunting accident in which two local
sportsmen on a rabbit hunting jaunt shot each other with 4/10 shotguns and later
succumbed to injuries they received as a result of where they fell.  Snoop Driblet
and Yak Von Prattle, both residents of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico,
were walking about 60 feet apart while tracking a large desert jack know locally
as ‘The Big Footie’ when they flushed him out of a badger burrow late yesterday
afternoon.
Driblet’s lady friend, Ida Fay Lupino, from Gropy Grape Overlook, who observed the incident, said  “The Jack rabbit ran right between them
and hopped over a line of tumbleweeds at the instant both of them turned and blasted away.  It was just awful and there was nothing I could
do.”  Both men, known to be long time friends and business partners, were struck directly in the face with bird shot; the force of the blast
propelled them backwards.  Driblet landed in a dense thicket of thorny cactus and was impaled on over three hundred thorns.  Yak Von Prattle
was blown onto a particularly large nest of red ants, in a hive stretching over nine square feet of ground.  Miss Lupino had the presence of mind
to snap a quick photo of Snoop Driblet (who had apparently swallowed his tongue) with her pocket digital camera before she ran to Prattle’s RV
and raced away to seek help and notify authorities.  Meanwhile, both men were unable to extricate themselves from the dire circumstances in
which they found themselves, and Driblet died from loss of blood, exposure to the heat and sun, and dehydration.  Von Prattle, unfortunately,
was eaten alive by the notoriously vicious Red Ant hive he fell onto.  When authorities managed to find the two some forty-five minutes after the
accident,  Driblet was already dead, but a flicker of life still remained in Von Prattle although the skin over his entire body, including his
face and most of his hair, had already been bitten off and carried away by the ants.  He died while his baffled rescuers were trying to figure out
how to remove the swarms of ants still engulfing his remains.  


No trace of the rabbit known as “Big Footie” was found, and it is presumed that both hunters simply missed the target they were aiming at when
they shot each other instead.  Burial services are scheduled for the two at “Peaceful Pastures” mortuary in Truth or Consequences, this coming
Thursday.  Under the circumstances, the families have chosen to keep the caskets closed due to the horrific conditions surrounding the demise
of the men.  Ida Fay Lupino is said to be stricken with grief and regret over her inability to render first aid to either of her friends, both of whom
she had dated since the three had graduated from high school together.  ‘We were all very close,” she said, “and they were just so much fun to
be with!  I will miss them terribly.”  According to Driblet’s mother, Sarah Clampet Driblet of Albuquerque, the two partners had recently opened
their second Art Supermart, specializing in 2nd hand art and artifacts they acquired at various distressed art sales throughout the south west.  
They had acquired a reputation as crafty connoisseurs who were not above driving down the price of art works by submitting highly critical and
often negative commentary to journals and other venues where art is bought, sold or discussed.  Yak Von Prattle’s property and personal effects
included a substantial number of art magazines, materials and books, which the family intends to donate to the library in Truth of Consequences
in his memory. So ends what has to be one of the strangest hunting incidents ever recorded by this reporter…in the annals of the
west.                
The photos here record was left of Von Prattle
after authorities determined he had died and
subsequently abandoned the rescue effort. The
rest of the body was simply carried away in tiny
bits and pieces by the voracious insects whose
colony he had invaded...
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Laboratory Research Diary of Sebastian Smellfungus, second weekly review