Titled "Pirouette in Atomic Mist: Post
Holocaust Portraits of Von James Leonidas
Van Eyes,”
by J. Leon the Abominable
{sometimes spelled ‘A-bomb in Able’} these
somewhat redundant images do not appear to
bear any perceivable relationship to the
internationally renouned  painter the art world has
come to admire and respect. Two of the judges
for the competition—Ugh Toad and his evil
twin—were overheard to have remarked during
the awards ceremony that these images invoke an
insider joke, but I was unable to ascertain what
possible connection could exist between humor
and the violent yoking together of these obviously
disturbing impressions.  
First Prize: Awarded Honorific title of  "Waz, Once the Great Oz Czar Daws (Zard Oz) Son of MAWS   
"Mercator of the Winds" by Icky Indignatious was received with genuine
approbation by those in the audience who were obviously less than knowledgeable,
given to extremes of sentimentality, and unaware of current Hellishly complicated
geo-political trends. Some say Icky got the plum simply because he was once
employed as Dotty's valet and caretaker. Others suspect a more sinister loco-motive.
Icky was simply being offered a bribe in order to get him to shut up during the
awards ceremony. A third camp was convinced Icky was fronting for a cabal of
blowhards interested in the publication of a vast and windy tract, “An Encyclopedia
of the Winds,” rumored to have been compiled by book worm Dotty some years
before his artistic metamorphosis.   

Whatever the truth of the matter, it probably doesn’t matter much either to you or
me. It suffices to say at least three fist fights broke out in the audience following
the announcement, and several patients had to be strapped back into their straight
jackets before some semblance of order could be restored. Finally, came the
unveiling of the incomprehensible first place winners.
Eucalyptic Brotherhood: Award of First String Status

The next entry by someone called simply Brother eM was accorded 3rd place
unanimously by the judges. Frankly I’m not sure why. Titled
“Cloud Prince
Crosses River Styx  in Dissension,”
apparently, this work provides insight into
aspects of Dotty’s personality of which few insiders are even remotely aware.
Asked to speculate about its significance, one judge by the name of E. Ike would
say only "There is a very thin line between normality and aberration: anyone who
has never crossed that line will never amount to much as an artist. It just doesn’t
work any other way.”     

Whatever the truth of the matter, it seems clear that this portrait portrays a
powerful intellect at ease with his materials and supremely confident about his art.  
No aspect of the human condition is likely to have escaped those teary eyes, which
seem to glow with an intimate knowledge of good and evil. Others may disagree,
but to me it is a transcendent image, caught somewhere between despair and hope,
but filled with an invincible determination…


Finally, the moment which everyone has been waiting for, but for me represents
something of a disappointment: the submission of the second and first place winner.
Chairman of the Arts Council Blue Ribbon Award
Fifth place was entitled “Paper Foo of Dotty” by Woton the Great Khan and a
companion piece
“More Foo of Dotty, No Foolin’ Confucius ” by P.T.
Gravey, (4th place, submitted posthumously), were thought to have captured
something essential about the reclusive primitive which has escaped the attention
of art critics around the world. One is almost persuaded to call it “The Dharma
of Dots,” a dutiful observance of the natural and moral principles that apply to all
beings and things. There is finely something mystical about Dotty’s work,
something elusive, something that cannot easily be categorized with the verbal
resources available to even the most skillful poet or wordsmith. Yet this quality,
whatever you choose to call it, seems to have been captured by the artists whose
work is represented here. Stare into those eyes and you might catch a hint of
what I’m simply fumbling to say. It is a depth, an inner strength, a purity of
expression yielded up from some deep, dark secret place, indescribable yet
perceivable and somehow knowable. That is all I can think of to say.
Honorable Mention: (no cash, just a tube of color paint)

Ranked 9th, 8th, 7th and 6th in no particular order, were the following
four works by sanitation workers at La Casa who claimed to have had
‘roughage’ issues with Dotty during the course of his years spent at the
facility.  Most admitted they admired his work but found his “hygienic
personality” less than rather than ‘more than human.’  

“Blue Squirt of Dotty,” at left, seems bent on an association with “Blue
Freud,” one of Dotty’s more famous early works. Below left is
“Asian
Squid of Dotted Squirt”
which some suggest has devious Mongoloid
overtones. Next (upper right) is
“Extension of Blue Dotty Extruded,”
which was considered by many as the quintessential product of the four
although the judges awarded a slightly higher score to
“Dark Phase of
Dotty’s Blue Pose”
seen here at lower right.  Needless to say, one is
inclined to agree with the judges: there is no point in trying to dis-criminate
between these novel entries other than to say they probably represent
attempts by jealous 2nd raters to capitalize upon the Dotty cachet in order
to make a few bucks from unsuspecting glugs whose wallets are ripe for
the plucking.

While the above efforts were generally received with a range of opinions
from ‘mildly interesting’ to down right silly, most members of the audience
were quick to agree that the top five presentations were representative of an
entirely different order of quality.
In "No More Dots; How About Some Lines," ranked 10th during audience interactive voting, Frank Weevil
gives us a portrait of Dotty covered in blackheads in order to celebrate the basic principle of Dotty’s work—
the dot.  Note the intense gaze, gritty stare and awesome determination emanating from the eyes, features
which most agree are vintage Dotty, including the crenellated forehead, the sour slope to the upper lip, the
tangle of hirsute-ism, the blunt prognathous of the lower jaw, and the bent nose terminating in its bulbous
knob. “It’s a face put together by a committee,” remarked one of the more vocal judges interviewed by this
reporter following the announcements of the official committee rankings. Numerous members of the
audience, however, reacted with angry snarls, offensive body gestures, boos, shouted epithets, raised index
fingers and other signs of displeasure after hearing the low down score this item received. Death threats and
animated suggestions about inserting heads into body cavities and other dark places also were counted among
the objections delivered up from the audience. Some even deeply resented the title, its crude innuendo so
disparaging of dots. Others jeered, mocking those who refused to acknowledge the Cro-Magnon of Dotty
theme implied in the piece...  
“Drivel of Dotty Digitized,” which ranked dead last among the fifteen attempts, is suspected to have been offered up as a
consolation to Dotty’s feral ancestors, who some believe are still living in trees somewhere in the wild’s of Northwest
Tanzania.  Here the artist was reaching with what is described as an obviously heavy handed club foot to portray the dot
master in his most basic elements—black dots against a white backdrip—a style which Dotty pioneered in many of his
early works, exercises, outright failures and absence-of-action illusion-ations. Some have pointed out the effort here is also
Garage School [of post outsider non-isms] whose reputations have proven to be less that desirable to mention here for
reasons which must remain undisclosed in the present publication.  
“Water Color for a Water Brother” was also not
particularly well received by many of those in attendance and was ranked 13th by the judges who were said to have been
offended by the blackened beard and facial hair which by no means could be considered relevant. Furthermore, there is
nothing pudgy about Dotty whose wire like frame is said to lend itself to long periods of leaning over a canvas applying
dots in endless convolutions of cuticular concentration.   
“Fans of Odd Jim Dotty” gathered recently in the recreation room of the M-wing complex at La Casa to celebrate the
noted painter's work, which has meant so much to so few over the past deade until his reputation spiroled over seven
continents following a series of reviews published in the prestigious art quarterly--Artsy Fartsy-- during the summer of
2007.   Dotty, an eccentric curmudgeon by anyone’s standard, is seen encroaching upon his low seventies in a recent
photo [above right] which served as the jumping off point for all the contestants who struggled to discover what many
believe are the salient qualities which best describe this illusive personality so feared by and respected for his acerbic wit,
personal charm, enigmatic works of art, and profound concern for the plight of humanity.  Dotty’s works, known for
their intense and abstruse abstractions, angular dis-orientations, complex pseudo dilemmas, macro economic theories,
and gravitational implications are now generally thought to be representative of an entirely new branch of human artistic
evolution.  Shrouded in secretive quagmires of post modern Garage School verbal jim-nastics, Dotty’s proclamations,
lucubrations, encomiums, speculations and proto synaptic gyrations are treasured by all who have had the privilege of
close contact with him, despite the challenge of adapting to his scathing coruscations and blotchy anti-grammatical
diatribes.  
‘Spackle Fried Sponge of Dotty’ (at right) which won 14th place in the competition explores this aspect of
Dotty’s multi-faceted personality, one of fifteen or so portraits of the artist to receive honorable mention at the
convention.
Artistic Reviews Online by Milton the Cracker King                                
La Casa Arts Council Sponsors Conventional Portrait Contest
Others assume one can earn an appreciation for art by visiting museums on one’s holidays or by reading 300 books, articles, papers or
scanning through great photo collections and memorizing titles such as “Art from Neanderthal to Modern Ape.”   I, however, maintain that art
appreciation is acquired only through the ingestion of fine wines (or drugs) while sauntering through a high class bordello while the ‘real
artists’ are in the act of bathing.  Only then can one be said to have acquired a true world class appetite for art, including its understanding
and appreciation. Now that we have that straight, and you have been informed of my credentials, let me proceed with my analysis of the
groovy topic at hand (hiccup).

When we speak of origins, of course, we are not really speaking of anything very old, like dinosaurs and shit like that.  No, when we speak of
origins, especially neo-primitive origins, the key detail to remember is that the prefix ‘neo-‘ just means ‘new.’   It is therefore obvious that the
appellation ‘neo-primitive’ does not mean to imply ‘old’ new stuff, but instead means ‘new old stuff’ which as you can see is quite a different
thing entirely.  Let’s be clear about that as well.

Now, when we imply something is primitive, what exactly do we mean?  Do we mean just plain ‘crude’ or ‘rude’ or do we perhaps really
mean ‘primal,’ ‘ancient’ or simply ‘prehistoric’?  Well, in the case of the movement we are concerned with here, let me assure you that what
we are talking about is not something ancient, prehistoric or primal; so what does that leave?  

Let us next consider the linguistic consequences of the nominative, ‘post-outsider,’ if there are indeed any consequences to be identified in the
first place.  ‘Post’ obviously means ‘after,’ and  not what you do when you want to send a letter. Since we can safely assume that anyone
reading this document already knows what an ‘outsider’ is, there is no reason to take up our valuable time slogging through the obvious.  
Now we try to put the two together.  What does ‘post-outsider’ mean?  Here I suspect that we are going to have to agree that it must mean
something like ‘the condition of being an outsider who is even more outside of anything than any previous outsider ever was.’  There does
not, in effect, appear to be anyplace more outside than this.  That brings us to the truly baffling part: this business about ‘non-ism’ [-ness].  
Let us assume for the present that ‘non-ism’ simply means “nothing connected with an –ism.”  This rules out ‘gism’ and about 4000 other -
isms like prism [not the shortened form of prison] criticism, individualism, schism, voyeurism, cubism, cannibalism, cataclysm, and
infantilism.  But as you can see, it does not rule out sarcasism…

Ok.  Now we know what we are talking about, right?  We are concerned with a movement which purports to include a host of categorical
endeavors like painting, carving, sculpture, poetry, writing etc. all of which share a set of characteristics that allow us to see them as related
aspects of the same thing, sharing certain anomalies, as well as commonalities of theme, style, fashion, technique, method  or approach.  To
broaden our perspective, it will be necessary next to examine a few of the artifacts said to be representative of this movement. Let us ask
ourselves, for example, what does a painting by Odd Jim Dotty share in common with a carving by Eucalyptus Ike?  Since the two artists are,
by their own admission, adherents of the same garage school movement, what do their efforts have in common? Although I hesitate to take
this ominous step, we must begin somewhere if we want to get anywhere at all (i.e. make any progress) with this topic.
On the Origins of the Neo-Primitive
Post-Outsider Non-Ism Movement
By Ugh Toad, Director,
Institute for the Study of Inuit Art and Letters,
Skagway, Alaska
Introduction:
There are art critics who claim a special brand of  insight or
knowledge with respect to the arts and art history, when in fact
their ‘skills’ are meager by any standard.  They are in error because
they assume art is a gift from the Gods one is born with or the
result of an endeavor one completes with the granting of a college
degree.
Chapter Six:
Consider then the modest carving you see here.  Now, it is doubly
important that the reader remember the critical definitions we
identified in the introduction. You see, the school whose origins we
are examining consists of two compelling yet competing factions.
On the one hand there are the neo-primitives as exemplified by Ike
(on the left) in contrast to the Non-Isms represented by Dotty’s
painting (on the right) both of course represented as being in the
same place but separated by a few miles (ibid). Clearly Ike, who
bears a striking resemblance to this carving, is a fairly primitive
type, which you can tell by looking closely at his little beady right
eye. Dotty on the other hand is hardly there (a characteristic of Non-
Ism-ness) since Dotty’s work is more abstract than Ike’s. As we
proceed, these distinctions will become even more obvious and
pronounced. Consider then the modest carving you see here. Now,
it is doubly pronounced. It seems in general to be the case that Ike
is more concerned with the concrete and Dotty with the abstract.
What we have here is a metaphor for the true origin of the chronologically inter-connected mass of associations and mentations responsible
for the Garage School Movement.  Elements of memory and imagery taken from the past, recycled, merged, reconfigured in the present,
shared, submerged, subdued and returned—conscious to unconscious to preconscious—past to present—a stunning, regurgitated revival,
a cycle of what is, has been or was, a process so complicated as to lie ineffable, outside any attempt to explain or codify its existence. There
is simply no –ism to explain this school of thought, for its practitioners are genuine outsiders whose artistic articulations are not joined or
jointed by any pre-existing theories, hypotheses, regulations, statutes, recommendations or rules. Theirs is purity beyond fashion, vogue,
habit, the accepted or unacceptable. You ask: What then is the essence of he Neo-Primitive Non-Ism Movement?

One vast deep well pours forth a mighty spring; most merely lap at its waters with thimbles, some thirst for it with slack tongues, a few are
driven to drink their fill and become forever palpably altered.  We, each of us, must simply make our choice, and then we must learn to live
with the consequences...
Take, for example, the two dicks shown here.  Ick’s dick carving is
obviously more primitive than Dotty’s.  Furthermore, Ike calls his
carving “Dick Head” while Dotty chose “Cockhorn” which is obviously
more abstract.  It would seem apparent then from this example alone that
even in the realm of language the schism between these two competing
garage school factions is apparent.  [Some readers won’t need reminding
that Dotty is not only a painter but an accomplished sculptor as well.]
Where do their ideas come from? Consider the next two photos; on the left a very early work by Dotty and on the right a recent effort by
Ike.  Titled “Little Balloon Men,” Dotty’s early work is thought to have been completed while he was in graduate school in Missouri, almost
forty years ago.  Yet the image bears a striking ‘structural’ resemblance to a series of carvings completed by Ike in his garage just this last
summer (2008).  Little faces peer suspiciously out at us from their perch atop balloon strings on the one hand, while a potpourri of
expressions gaze out from their station atop long thin bamboo pedestals on the other.       
Hopi Reservation, White Mountains New Mexico
Office of the Chief of Community Operations

To:        The Honorable Frank Weevil, Chief of La Casa Sanitarium, Irvine

Dear Sir:

It has come to the attention of the tribal council here on the reservation that you have treated a patient at your facility with the name of
Guadalupe Ulzana Logrimas y Penocho.  News of her condition and subsequent mistreatment at the hands of her legally designated
guardian (some person named Ugh Toad!), has greatly distressed the elders, who believe the following.
First, it appears certain from a
photograph which appeared recently in The National Enquirer that the female in question is the step-daughter of one Wiley Coyote, also
known as Charlie Runs with the Dogs, a tribal elder of the Coyote Clan here at the White Mountain Reservation. According to Charlie (i.e.
Wiley Coyote) his daughter ran off with some foolish white man about two years ago after she had refused to perform her family chores
any longer.
Second, the true name of the female is Guadalupe Ulzana Pobrecito Penocho y Yolanda or ‘Guppy’ for short, not Gulp. Third,
as a sibling of the Coyote Clan in good standing, it is anathema for any member of the clan to touch, eat or come in contact in any way
with a toad, due to religious sanctions imposed by totemic taboos, gender restrictions, mores, folkways, etc. of the Coyote Clan. No self-
respecting coyote would ever consider eating a toad, according to the elders of the clan, who are said to be outraged by even the thought
of such an occurrence having taken place.  

Naturally we here on the reservation representing the bureau do what we can to avoid stirring up the hostiles.There are reports from
credible sources hereabouts that a full scale uprising is not beyond the limits of possibility (the Coyote Clan is especially influential around
here because of its reputation for crafty negotiations with the locals--white ranchers and farmers who depend upon Indian water rights for
their personal livelihoods).

As a consequence of these conditions and the financial circumstances Miss Guppy now finds herself in, the tribal council has authorized
me to communicate with you and to request the immediate release of the female so that she may be returned to the bosom of her family
and her clan, where she can resume her filial obligations and chores. Your personal attention to this affair is requested in the light of the
seriousness of the matter for all parties concerned both here and there.

Sincerely,

Robert ‘Chief Bobby’ Doodle
Director of Community Affairs
Hopi Reservation, White Mt. New Mexico.    


Missing Persons Report Filed by Sanitarium Patient:
Bizarre Circumstances Mystify Local Authorities

Frank Weevil, Superintendent and General Manager of the La Casa Retreat in Irvine, has issued a missing persons report for a patient
previously committed to the sanitarium. The Irvine Police Department, as a result, is actively seeking the whereabouts of the patient’s legal
guardian, Ugh Toad, an itinerant artist known for his minimalist manifestations and close association with the Southern California
underground art scene. Apparently the patient, Miss Guadalupe Ulzana Lagrimas y Penocho, sometimes referred to as GULP by other
patients at the asylum, was to be released into the care of Mr.Toad, who some believe chose to take a wild ride out of the relationship
instead.  La Casa Administration records identify Mr. Toad as the legal guardian and court appointed trustee for Miss Gulp, who last week
was scheduled to be released into the custody of her guardian after her treatment at La Casa was complete. According to Weevil, all
medical fees and related expenses for Gulp were paid by Mr. Toad, who security records at the sanitarium reveal made several visits to see
Gulp over the period of her seclusion and the two engaged in conjugal relations, repeatedly, during this period. Written communications
between Weevil, the general manager, and Mr. Toad, also establish that Toad was particularly concerned with protecting and resuming his
conjugal access to Miss Gulp as soon as her condition showed some improvement.
Although patient records are scrupulously and legally protected by the sanitarium’s privacy act, this reporter
spoke to members of the on-site hospital staff about Gulp, who, off the record, were willing to fill in some of the
gaps in the ‘official story.’  It seems that Gulp was admitted for a range of antisocial behaviors including public
intoxication, dependency on the drug known as Ecstasy, public fornication and other lewd and licentious acts
involving minors among others as well as members of both the sexes.  Gulp’s ‘official’ vocation was listed as
Dominatrix on her admission records, but she apparently made a living at panhandling and offering herself to the
highest bidder in the Hollywood sex trade.  It is further suspected that she was employed in the clandestine
pornographic film industry where she was billed as The Apache Attaché…although the hospital staff was
unsuccessful in its attempt to locate a copy of any of her films for clinical observation. Allegedly, the photo
shown here shows Gulp in her initial role as a porno film diva operating as a part-time spy in the American
Embassy in Tangiers, where her smoking décolletage and powerful sexual appeal lure a series of unsuspecting
males to reveal valuable commercial secrets.    
Anyone with information as to the whereabouts of the Toad is asked to contact the Irvine Police department hotline, where all
calls are received on a confidential basis. In the interim Gulp will be required to remain at the Irvine facility until such time as the local
authorities are convinced she will be provided for either by friends or family.         
Due to the isolated location of the Hogan (photo here) the rental comes with
authentic Indian foods provided and prepared by a squaw (of your choice). The
tribal elders allege that the low down white man chose Guppy for the services and
after a wild night of partying, absconded with her without paying for the meal or
the rental.  The elders now believe the Indian maiden was lured away by the low
down white man, who not only violated her in every way but then abandoned her to
a life of crime and prostitution in the big city.  Years of abuse followed as the poor
woman tried to make her way, but mistreatment at the hands of unscrupulous
white-eyes eventually lead to her commitment to the nuthouse where she languished
in humiliation and despair unbeknownst to her family on the reservation.  

Learning of her plight as a result of an article which appeared recently in the
Enquirer, the elders appealed to their Chief, Bobby Doodle, who, in his capacity as
local representative for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, appealed to the nuthouse
superintendent, the honorable Franki Weevil, for the immediate release and return of
the poor bedraggled wretch.  Having received no reply to their earnest appeal for
truth, justice and the American Indian way, the elders now believe they have no
other alternative than a declaration of war to be waged against the nuthouse, in
order to assuage the stain upon the honor of the tribe…They intend as well to seek
a claim of damages in civil court against the low down white man for some bizarre
graffiti he somehow spattered upon one of the white-washed walls inside the
Hogan.  Apparently this act of vandalism was particularly insulting to a local Hopi
tribal shaman,  Billy Yellow-Snake with
Urine Eye, who is said to have been
especially vociferous in convincing other members of the tribe to mount an
immediate attack…


Tribal Elders Seek Return of Squaw Kidnapped by Itinerant Artist
New Developments in Missing Person’s Case
Members of the Coyote Clan from the White Mountain Hopi Reservation in
New Mexico say they are "preparing to declare war on a nuthouse" in Irvine,
California, for failure to return a damsel in distress to her rightful place on the
reservation.  Wiley Coyote (also known as ‘Dances with Dogs’),
spokesperson for the Indians, claims that his beloved step-daughter,
Guadalupe Ulzana Pobrecita Penocho y Yolanda, (Guppy for short), was
abducted over two years ago from the family’s vacation Hogan after a night of
partying with a low down white man who had rented the facility for the night.  
It seems the Lagrimas and Penocho families, to whom Guppy is related,
rented out their winter Hogan as income property during the summer months,
after advertising the rental over the internet.  
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Moscow Office of the Commissar of Culture
Vladimir Jacovff, Presiding



To:        The Honorable Frank Weevil, General in charge, La Casa Asylum
Irvine, California, USA

Dear General,

Speaking on behalf of His Excellency, Count Petrov Von Gastrodavich, I am authorized to offer a one year revocable tourist visa and travel
voucher to a patient of yours who we understand has recently been released from your custody.  It is our earnest intention to employ her as a
part-time cook’s helper and valet to Alexi Gaspardin Visionarovich (Von Gastrodavich), son-in-law of His Excellency Count Petrov Von
Gastrodavich.   This position is being made available due to the fact that the patient in question is said to be a member of the Hopi tribe of
American Indians who is particularly skilled in the cuisine of the reservation and its preparation.  If this information is in any way inaccurate,
the Von Gastrodavich family reserves the right to revoke her visa without prior notification of next of kin.

Please convey this earnest invitation and employment opportunity to Guadalupe Ulzana Lagrimas y Penocho on behalf of the Moscow Office
of the Commissar of Culture, Vladimir Jacovff, who is himself an ardent connoisseur of South Western American Indian Diet and Culture.

If this offer is found acceptable to the female in question, the Gastrodavich family will deposit, upon her arrival in Moscow, a sum of rubles
equivalent to $25,000.00 American dollars in a bank account of her choice for the year of her employment and pay all her expenses, room and
board, for the same period.  Naturally, the position includes medical, dental, and vision insurance as well.

Please reply promptly as His Excellency is eager to savor the plump Hopi cuisine...
With all due respect,

Cassimere the Cossack
Secretary 2nd class
Lagrimas Y Penocho family Hogan rental
Graffiti left by low down white man
My name is Rupert McGoogal, and I am writing to ask you for your hand in
marriage.  I read about you in the newspaper, and I thought you might be willing to
accept my proposal, because you have had a tough time of it, something which I
myself know all about. Not too longt ago the mine shaft where I live caved in and  
caused the death of my entire family, my wife and all three kids.   But, depending on
how you look at it, the cave in also revealed a rich deposit of Opals, and I find myself
now alone but filthy rich.  I’m not asking you to feel sorry for me ‘cause I don’t feel
sorry for you.  Life can be a rough tick under your hide, I know that, so I say what
the Hell, you know it, I know it, why can’t we get together and see what happens
next?  You won’t have to worry ever again about money.  Believe me I got plenty of
that.  What say I mail you ten grand, no questions asked, so you can buy some
clothes and the plane ticket for the trip?  We can talk on the telephone first if you
want, that’s ok by me too.  
To Guadalupe U L P
In Care of Frank Weevil, Superintendent, La Casa Home for Unwed Mothers

Dear Guadalupe,
Coober Pedy’s my home. But I bet it’s a lot like the reservation where you come from. Anyway, like I say, I read about you in the
newspaper and saw your picture, and well, I guess I just took to you right off. If you decide to make my day, let me know and I will
wire you the cash for the trip.

What have we got to lose?
Love,
Rupert   

Local Businessman Slapped with Notice of Eviction
By Snoop Muck
Immaculate Times Staff writer
Police and civil authorities today raided the offices of Ace Extermination Enterprises, a local firm said to be an independent in the business of
pest eradication management.  Residents of Van Nuys had grown accustomed over the last few years to seeing the company’s little yellow
trucks with the blue flag sporting a skull and crossed bones as they buzzed about the city dispensing clouds of pesticide in the never ending
effort to exterminate bugs.  Little is known by the employees of the firm about its flamboyant owner, Ace Turner, apparently because he was
typically “out of town” most of the time.  According to Orval the Aryan, who owns a competing pest control business, Ace is a notorious
womanizer, who spends his time whoring around Vegas when he isn’t gambling away the profits from his pesticide enterprise. Whatever his
problems are, Ace also failed to pay the rent as well as the weekly paychecks for his six employees. Consequently, the owner of the site
where the firm was located, Light Industrial Properties Inc., has evicted the the property.  In conjunction with eviction proceedings, the
authorities are also seeking the whereabouts of Ace because of an extensive list of unpaid fines for parking violations received by the company
vehicles. In addition, the company warehouse is alleged to be in serious violation of environmental standards for the storage of poisons, and is
Police and civil authorities today raided the office of ACE Extermination Enterprises, a local firm said to be an independent in the business of
pest eradication management.  Residents of Van Nuys had grown accustomed over the last few years to seeing the company’s little yellow
trucks with the blue flag sporting a skull and crossed bones as they buzzed about the city dispensing clouds of pesticide in the never ending
effort to exterminate bugs.  Little is known by the employees of the firm about its flamboyant owner, Ace Turner, apparently because he was
typically “out of town” most of the time.  According to Orval the Aryan, who owns a competing pest control business, Ace is a notorious
womanizer, who spends his time whoring around Vegas when he isn’t gambling away the profits from his pesticide enterprise. Whatever his
problems are, Ace also failed to pay the rent as well as the weekly paychecks for his six employees. Consequently, the owner of the site
where the firm was located, Light Industrial Properties Inc., has evicted the the property.  In conjunction with eviction proceedings, the
authorities are also seeking the whereabouts of Ace because of an extensive list of unpaid fines for parking violations received by the company
vehicles. In addition, the company warehouse is alleged to be in serious violation of environmental standards for the storage of poisons, and is
thought to have contaminated an artesian well below the property which provides drinking water to residents of a nearby community trailer
park.  Apparently aware that the bull-pucky was about to hit the propeller, Ace bailed out of the bomber before it hit the hard spot. Anyone
interested in a fleet of six little yellow trucks is advised to contact Sid the Spider, owner of LIPI, Light Industrial Properties Inc., who is
accepting bids for office furniture and accessories as well.
The Gospels of GULP
Hold on to your horses, throw out all the old assumptions, prepare for the inevitable and
disregard everything you thought you knew about gravity. That is the advice this poster child is
purveying about the eye popping today at GULP’s Gouache Goddess, where the smart set paid dearly
for its strange encounter disregard everything you thought you knew about gravity. That is the advice
this poster child is with House of Jimmies innovative Ladies Anaphylactic Fall Fashions. Under the
direction of purveying about the eye popping g-strings, nipples, gowns and accessories on display
earlier today at GULP's Gouache Goddess,  where the smart set shop for House Jimmies innovative
Ladies Anaphylactic Fall fashions. Under the direction of House Jimmie's new fashion diva, the
incomparable GULP, designer of the infamous lady of the evening zipperless strip down strapless, as
well as other practical applications in her line of seduction solutions, the event ran the gamut from
wild to weirdo, with brief excursions into the just plain slicko-wacko. Peering out of one of her latest
creations, the ‘Portable Vagina in Fushia’, GULP was the uncontested paragon of fashion as she
presented three of her quintessential quintet, five slick new outfits for the price of just $50,000 dollars
(each). First her fashion statement for techno twiggy (seen at right) for the woman who just can’t
seem to get enough attention from other women.     

House of Jimmie Announces New Fashions:
World is Agog over Zen Hopi Positivist Mystic Compressional Line
By Guadalupe Ulzana Lagrimas y Penocho (‘tears and pussy’ for short)
This rig provides instant access to all the
conveniences of the powder room at
your fingertips.  Next, her “Spider Trails
of a Gouache Goddess”, (lower right) a
stunning display of woven silk fibers
coated with a mild adhesive that cling to
any surface or contour of the body.  So
evanescent is the material that the pattern
appears more like something painted
rather than worn.  A delicately carved
combination dildo-cane comes with every
outfit.   
Of course, GULP’s greatest creation, the piece which is said to have pre-launched her phenomenal rise to the
epiphany of fashion diva, is the indescribably diaphanous delicacy you see above.  Her ‘Master Pussie in
Chalk’ with its transparent body sock accentuated with Painted Lady Butterfly Wings © remains the single
most sensational fashion design in the history of human history…  
This Year's Winner: International High Fashion Moola Award
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Minutes of the Committee for the La Casa Literary Prize                                                                            December 2008

Prepared by Swishy Homunculus
After careful reading and review of this year's submissions for the La Casa Literary Contest, the awards committee is prepared finally to reveal the
names of the winners after months of hard work and critical argumentation. Prizes to be awarded this year include the Louisa May Crapshot Poetry
Award,  The Bad Boy Clive Bugsy Prize, The Howling Slim Pukeins Parabolic Ribbon,  and The Cryptoclasm of Mug  "Mud  Realities" Trophy.
The Louisa May Crapshot Poetry Award:
Scion of the fabulously wealthy Crapshot Dynasty of Newport Beach, Louisa May Crapshot achieved a well deserved
literary reputation among suffragettes fighting for women's rights in the 2nd decade of the 20th century. Her
impassioned poems, which in several respects were far ahead of their time, tended to depict women as the fairer sex,
deserving of the respect and veneration they were entitled to receive. Lyrical and melodious, her words evoke a sense
of the timeless patterns of behavior defining the proper relationship between men and women and hint at the joys to be
gained from respectful conjugal relations between the sexes. Unfortunately after a series of disastrous love affairs in
the thirties and forties left her mentally and physically exhausted, and a social embarrassment to her family, she was
committed to the La Casa Sanitarium for the remainder of her days. Following her death in 1972, the Crapshot family
established the award which now proudly bears her name...


In honor, then, of Louisa May Crapshot and the entire Crapshot Family, the committeee is delighted to award the
Crapshot Prize to Milton, The Cracker King, for his metrically complex, two melded sonnets in iambic heptameter,
"Fouteener  for a Frogman."
Fourteener for a Frogman

Count Herpetude of Castle Toad was really quite the rogue
Where’er he strode round his abode, his vestments surely vogue.
In sheer delight this worthy sight weighed forth upon the strand
Where every maiden curtsied right, his pointy nose so grand.
Now up and down and then around he strutted fair withal
But rarely would he share delight with any nose too small.
His flashing eyes, his puckered lips, his ears like twitching bats
He sniffed his way across the day, inspecting ladies’ hats.
Yes, hats were all the rage for him, as were the scents of quim
He’d stick his nose between her toes, it mattered not to him.
Then up her leg he sniffed his way to test the zest of knee
His cunning eye astray her thigh as far as he could see.
Then like a snail he sniffed her tail to show his courtesy
Inhaling every scented whiff like Tuna from the sea.


If she was ripe he took a swipe, his tongue across the grain,
And if she giggled after thought, it blew his tickled brain.
What happened swiftly after that was purely his affair
Of slurping sounds of moans ‘n hounds resounding through the air.
Oh, he was dandy, he was cool, he was as slick as snot
As bold as bawdy, like a Toddy, gay as Brandy hot.
It couldn’t end, it shouldn’t bend, no price could it sustain
Too many days of endless ways produced the usual strain.
Thus finally, resignedly, he came to his, decrotched,
The end was near, his shank now limp was shriveled and debauched.
But it was swell and what a tale, in life he broke the mold
It mattered not where he would rot, so long as it was told.
So gather round ye hear the sound, footsteps in Castle Toad,
Where you might hear the runting sound of Herpetude the Bold…
The Bad Boy Clive Bugsy Prize
The son of an itinerant cotton picker, Clive Bugsy grew up on one corporate farm after another.Years of
back breaking labor as a child picking cotton for rich shareholders hardened Clive to the realities of
existence as a poor white without an education or a future. Clive’s passion, however, was insects, which
he came to associate with the farm workers whose efforts lined the pockets of the rich. His observation of
‘the many working for the one’ led Clive finally to the profession of beekeeper, a lucrative enterprise which
allowed him eventually to amass a considerable fortune by renting hives to pollinate citrus and almond
orchards in the central valley of California. Although he never married, he did associate unfortunately with
prostitutes, from whom he contracted a virulent case of syphilis, which went medically undetected until he
was judged mentally incompetent and remanded to the custody of the La Casa Asylum. In 1964, the
Probate Court for the County of Orange, responsible for the legal execution of his estate, established a trust
fund in his name, to sponsor a literary prize for written works which foster a love of insects in general or
promote an appreciation for beekeeping in particular. With this objective in view, the Committee has
awarded the Clive Bugsy Prize to E. Ike of Irvine, for his cunning short essay, "Aliens in the Garden."
Count Herpetude of Castle Toad
               “Aliens in the Garden” from Life and Times of Eucalyptus Ike
                                             by E. Ike
The in-your-face struggle for vhelter, sustenance, sex and entertainment (not necessarily in that
order) offers little in the way of a serious challenge for Ike any longer.  He owns adequate shelter,
grows much of his own sustenance, his crusty libido (alas) has slipped into a perpetually dormant
state, and his entertainment needs are now largely provided by Netflix, supplemented with his
substantial video library of DVDs, engrams, memories, fantasies and his general tendency (some
would say his only tendency) to engage in postprandial day dreaming of a more or less torpid sort.
Having suspected that this set of circumstances was fairly common among people of his wool
gathering peer group, you can imagine Ike’s surprise, then, when the pointer on the wheel of
Karma took a particularly quirky spin in his direction. You see, Ike was minding his own business
(as usual), lolling around after a pleasant day in the garage. It was around 4:30 in the afternoon,
and he had strolled down to the kitchen for a snack and was standing by a sliding screen door
leading out into the garden when he heard the strangest sound coming from just outside. It was
like a gathering hum gradually rising in intensity, and when he turned around to look, it was the
sound of hundreds of bees in swirling flight, a veritable swarm just a few feet beyond the screen
door.
Although an avid gardener, Ike had never in his life been so close to so many
of these industrious little critters, and his first reaction was rather like a type
of dumb struck, simple-minded awe!  It was simply so unexpected, so out of
the blue, so “Holy shit! Now what in the Hell is going on!”  (Note emphasis on
‘now what’ because something is always going on. The attached photos give
everyone (mostly his three fans) a better grasp of the fleeting, flighty and
downright flaky quality of this narrative.  The shot above shows the lid to the
compost container where some of the little critters had began to take up an
immediate joint tenancy (actually at this stage their behavior was more like a
serious in-your face declaration to take up a permanent unqualified
residency!). In short, they liked what they saw, and they intended to move in
without delay.  

Ike estimates this first party was not going to take “no” for an answer and had
no intention to negotiate about whether to establish uncontested squatters
rights, not while the rest of the  squadrons and flotillas in the fleet remained
airborne in threatening array overhead.  Gradually however, as the initial
invasion party investigated every corner, crevice, nook and cranny of the
compost bin, more and more of the critters dropped down onto the landing
pad and began to swarm over and under ever surface in sight.  

The second photo above shows a slice of this activity.  (Note the handle of the
pitchfork leaning against the right side of the compost bin.) Simultaneous with
the above activity, the grounded swarm began to form up into a more
compact mass under the lid.  The third photo shows this balling up process
almost complete, with the pitch fork handle now exposed to view.  This
formidable armada of unmitigated intruders emitted an inexplicable but
ominous cacophony of blooming and buzzing confusion as its pieces and parts
formed and reformed into globs, blobs, and blankets, oozing with potent
potential for pontifical palpitations.  One had the sense that a powerful
phenomenon of nature was pulsing with deliberate necessity nearby, as if an
enigmatic and inchoate ritual were being performed, to herald an ancient
manifest destiny of the insect world. And woe to him who failed to heed the
warning of his senses, who chose to blunder on to this tableau without the
proper credentials, letters of introduction, diplomatic immunities, apiarian
apparatus and the appropriate unqualified respect.

No breach of etiquette was going to be tolerated, no insult overlooked, no
intrusion accepted, no misstep allowed.  Get it right or get it right up your
nose, in your ears, in your hair, your armpits, your cheeks, maybe even your
tongue…while you were yelling your head off for help. In other words, stay
out of the way, don’t poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong, stand well
back, maintain your distance, chill out, be cool, do not do anything that might
be interpreted as foolish, unless you were prepared to pay the consequences,
forfeit the match, throw in the towel, excuse yourself, admit defeat and run
screaming in pain from the field of battle…Of course, that was simply Ike’s
vivid imagination running off at the mouth. The truth is much more pedestrian,
because what happened during the denouement to the tale amounted to a far
less spectacular story.

As you can see in the 4th photo, reinforcements arrived in the form of a single
guy, a beekeeper, with a slightly modified vacuum cleaner. Although he wore
no protective clothing of any kind, he first 'tested' the bees to determine if they
were friendly by running his hand down their backs.  Concluding "they were
all nice bees," he then assembled his device and hosed up the swarm right
down to the last bee working on the new cone. Then he disassembled his
device to show everyone the canister with all the bees inside which you can
see he loaded into the back of a van before driving away (but not before
collecting a $100.00 fee from Ike). There you have it; the whole tale in a
nutshell. You might be minding your own business on any day of the week,
and it won't matter one bit, because, right out of the blue you owe somebody
$100.00 to haul away a mess of insects you never even suspected were about
to pay you a visit…go figure? And that’s just the way it goes, regardless of
whether you like it or not…             
The Howling Slim Pukeins Literary Ribbon
Few humans ever rise to the rarefied domain inhabited by the likes of a madman like Howling Slim Jim Pukeins,
Iconoclast, athiest, schlock car dealer, pothead, needle knight (one who takes drugs intravenously), pimp,
scandalous whoremonger, biker gang crony, agent provocateur, firebug, smuggler, dipsomaniac, child porn star,
poacher, homosexual sex offender, you name it and if it's crooked enough Howling Jim has probably had a hand
in it at one time or another.  Driving under the influence of at least seventeen illegal substances—including hash,
pot, jimson weed, mescaline, acid, peyote and tincture of nitroglycerin—Slim was seriously injured when his
Vespa Motor-scooter went air born off Tuna Canyon Road into Big Topanga Canyon. Paralyzed from the waist
down, Slim spent the remainder of his days in a wheelchair at the La Casa Spinal Clinic until his death in 1997,  
when the staff at the clinic took up a collection to sponsor the award in his name…

This year’s ribbon, by unanimous consent of the members of the committee, is awarded to the patient known
only as the Venerable Bead, M-Ward, La Casa Home for the Criminally Insane…     
Parable of the War to End the Previous War
and to Settle All the Most Ancient of Scores

By The Venerable Bead, First Beacon of the Church of Waldzell,
in the Pelican Province of Castalia

When the Melicans snatched the Frog-lands from the Pelicans, her Imperial Majesty the Quarantine Queen Nuestra Bella Cosa took the greatest
offense.  Of course there was no official recompense possible, though it really amounted to very little sense in dollars and cents, because that
grasping and covetous reaction immediately ballooned beyond the point of no return to any reasonable monetary counter offensive. The upshot of
all this rupee rumba was a gleefully pumped up fracas by all of the counter culture news media (i.e. media of every stripe, color and persuasion)
who manufactured the typical crock-a-doodle ballyhoo for distribution to the cock sure public and the personal perusal of the Queen, her selfless-
ness herself, who listened most inattentively with her one good ear. Tin as it was, this ocean of media nonsense and sea of senseless sensitivity
aroused the Queen’s morbid propensity for dispensing displeasure in unlimited post menstrual measure, plus she, henceforth, blew the King’s
whistle so furiously in the palace powder magazine that the tightfisted fight was on, so to speak, if you get my meaning…

You see, the Melicans had merely been posturing with posthumous presumption, in an infantile attempt to precipitate their historically typical
(negative three R) policy provisions: raid, rob and ransack for BLOB: burgle, loot or booty).  Unfortunately the Pelican Queen was already
inordinately overextended on her credit card debt, and since that was just the size of it, and both advised the skies of it, pretty much what followed
was bound to be automatic (e.g. automatic rhetoric leading to a debate involving the application of automatic weapons etc.) Both sides naturally
hoped to settle the economic score, and perhaps to get even a little ahead if that was humanly possible. If not, after all, both parties still considered
it at least a splendid opportunity to test some expensive military hardware they had been developing secretly over the years.

Everyone knew, of course, that the Pelicans were simply fascinated by their frogs and would do whatever seemed necessary to recapture The
Frog-land Islands from the clutches of the mercilessly militant Melican forces now bent on reaping the reward of their batrachian beachhead.

Urged on by none other than Shrub II, El Presidente of the Melican Proto-Republic, the Melican party leadership had somehow mismanaged the
evolution of a religious, right-wing quasi-conservative, quasi-civilian government on the home islands. Vitamin supplements dispensed by party
insiders, loyalty oaths required in the workplace, and daily pep rallies presided over by Shrub himself had soon conditioned the average Melican
blockhead to expect loads and toads of government dispensed largesse, thus necessitating the acquisition of the Frog-lands for purposes of national
security in order to implement the trickle down economic policies of the Shrub regime.  Naturally, the primordial gang bang of Shrub II’s daily
harangue showered down with especial volume upon those rough towns who sponsored his militant meat hook squads, now resoundingly
clamorous for his arrival in Frog-land, to signal the culmination of all post offensive preposterous spread legged maneuvers. Coincidentally, as you
might expect, the price of frog futures on the international exchange rose quickly to levels so unprecedented as to make the average frog gasp with
desperate exasperation at the prospect of his now imminent familial demise.

Meanwhile, with all his cryptic and gluey rhetorical style intact, the Pelican King (Blowhard XXXIII) issued his predictable ‘proclamation’ on
pugilism, demanding the immediate expulsion of the Melican invaders, traitors, aviators etc. from the inviolate womb of the Pelican motherland,
whose sacred breasts had been savagely palpitated by warmongering hordes of crazed Melican barbarians. So often repeated by the media, soon
these very words were etched onto the gray matter of every Pelican pothead who called himself a patriot, and the act of menticide was gleefully
self-inflicted with remarkable efficiency across the length and breadth of the Pelican homeland in less than a fortnight.

Addled pains were gleefully appended to the assembled host of scrambled brains and the whole effortless juggernaut was primed with the requisite
peppers and spices guaranteed to promulgate the desired political effect. Every patriotic Pelican breast was fondled with the fondest of economic
and paternal patronage, while the pundits sprinkled their wise wordiness over the flag draped mess kit in order to bless the coming contest with the
proper hallowed signs of progress. Great pompous parades were held to allow the citizenry the opportunity to profess an interest in the acquisition
of War Bonds and other securities whose ownership belied their true testament to the righteous faith of the party progressives bent on Pelican
revanchist maneuvers to even the score and then get even some more.

The sacred motherland had been plundered, eviscerated, mangled, spat upon, defiled by the fowl and cretinous Melican untouchables who must be
made to pay for the desecration of her tender parts by the vile, uncircumcised, loathsome spawn of the Melican swine who had crossed the 39th
parallel in a malicious and unwarranted maneuver to debase the Pelican currency and disturb the meditations of the Quarentine Queen, The First
Mother of the Sacred homeland, Nuestra Bella Cosa herself. And besides, they were after the “frogs!” Why, it was not only that; they were after
the very heart of the Frog-lands themselves. “Our Froglands!” The very frog-lands we stole (at such great cost to our beloved ancestors) from the
Baboonicans no more than a century ago! It was monstrous, ridiculous, impetuous, impudent; and besides it was totally unacceptable,
diplomatically impossible to justify and historically indefensible. In short, it would never do. There was simply no way around that.  

Weeks passed as the crises boiled over into a poisonous concoction of self-hatred mixed with equal parts of guilt and the concomitant necessity for
revenge. “It can’t be my fault, our fault, anybody else’s fault but theirs.”  They are responsible, they are the evil ones, they are the fiends, the
gooks, the slants, the slopes, the slimy gyppos whose grubby greed has resulted in this unacceptable and totally unwarranted predicament.
Therefore, “They” must pay for their sins, this abject effrontery, this stain on the imperial escutcheon of our beloved monarch Blowhard XXXIII.  
Naturally, every newspaper down to the lowest vile spewing subservient rag echoed these sentiments at every opportunity to increase their
circulation, until the peasantry was sufficiently stoned out of their minds to be willing to accept any alternative to avoid having to face the truth of
the matter. Even war was more acceptable than the truth…

So, it came to pass…

Years passed in the heroic--indeed the almost superhuman--struggle on the part of both sides to justify their insanity. No price was too high,  no
cost was too great, no sacrifice too unbearable to bear, to ensure that the enemy was decimated, slaughtered, butchered and finally buried under an
onslaught of self-righteous depravity. Nothing else mattered; winning was everything. First the men slaughtered each other with unbridled abandon
on the killing fields of the Frog-land Islands. Then the women joined in to ensure that the slaughter continued, each side now ever more determined
to prevail over the heartless beasts, the ravenous hoards, the inhuman sub-humans who slew their brethren and kindred without mercy. What did it
matter when their economies were destroyed in the process; what did it matter that their childrens’ childrens’ children’s future was sacrificed upon
the altar of national honor, that their lives and the lives of their children were lost in a hopeless and endless cycle of repetitive violence? Over and
over and over they threw themselves into the yawning jaws of death, suffering every calamity, every catastrophe, every horror known to men.
Until—one day—there were simply no more bullets, no more bombs, no more guns, tanks, aircraft, ships, and no more able-bodied adults to
continue the war.

All that was left were the old, the worn out, the mutilated, the amputees, the handless, the legless, the armless, the eyeless, those without ears and
noses, the paralyzed hulks, and the irrevocably insane. It was over, finally, over. There was simply nothing left to fight with--and to fight over. The
once exotic Frog-land Islands were now little more than barren wastes of bloody water-filled bomb craters where untold scavengers feasted upon
the carnage of what remained of those once glorious Imperial Armies. And all about, the islands bristled with the scabrous hulks of warships
forlorn and sunken, rusting and silent. It was really quite a mess, for anyone with eyes who cared to see—the truth.

The sad, historically incomprehensible, unbelievably monstrous and inhuman truth repeated over and over and over again for thousands and
thousands of years…until there it was all over again…but for how long?
The Cryptoclasm of Mug “Mud Realities” Trophy
We round out the literary recognition ceremonies this year by honoring the new Chairman of the Board at La Casa,
Doctor James Leon Mysticus, for his insightful short story titled “The facts of Life: A fable.”  As you know, Clem
Mudmug was the laboratory assistant in charge of the care and feeding of lab rats for science experiments
conducted by hospital staff at the La Casa Hospice for Indigent Outpatients.  During his long association with the
institution, Mudmug was instrumental in the effort to breed new strains of rats with anatomical characteristics
suited to the surgical experiments associated with brain anatomy and other central nervous system disorders being
conducted here at La Casa.  In this capacity Mudmug was responsible for all aspects of the breeding regime,
exhibited by adult rats stimulated to breed above and beyond their normal reproductive cycle.  Overwork associated
with especially long hours spent in the rat wards observing rats fornicating, combined with poor nutrition, and an
acute case of gingivitis of the gums lead eventually to ‘personality instability,’ a condition which resulted in
Mudmug’s  being placed in protective custody in the M-ward, where he resides today under the care of his many
friends and family. In honor of his many years of devoted service to the Medical Arm of the Sanitarium, the Mud
Realities Trophy is awarded once every five years to a staff member who exhibits (in writing) a special sense of the
importance of animal welfare in the attempt to improve the lives of the sick, the lame and the hopeless…therefore,
without further ado, trouble, fuss or excitement, the committee takes great pride in awarding the ‘Mud Trophy” to
this year’s outstanding recipient, Doctor James L. Mysticus.
                 The Facts of Life: A Fable
                      By James L. Mysticus


Mrs. Herman Brown-Figg went to lectures and to the Unitarian church.  She was (everyone who went to lectures and the Unitarian church said
so) a very enlightened person.  Mrs. Brown-Figg was very concerned about her son Herman Brown-Figg Jr.  Herman Jr. was nearly four years
old and did not yet understand the facts of life.  Mrs. Brown-Figg had purchased all the latest and most influential books and as she frankly but
modestly put it knew the theory of Herman Jr. from “birth trauma to thanatos.”  She had herself drawn three color pastel charts illustrating all
the wonderful and vital functions of the reproductive equipment and process.  But all her efforts and intentions went to no avail.  Herman Jr.
was just not interested.  Throughout her numerous educational sessions, Herman Jr. sat silently watching but displayed every indication of
disinterest and lack of comprehension.  Occasionally when she would bring out her charts he would whimper, softly and tearlessly, curl up on
the floor, and go to sleep.

Mrs. Brown-Figg became a very anxious woman.  Methodically, she began to re-read her Modern Library edition of the collected works of
Sigmund Freud.  Perhaps she had misunderstood, or was not using the right theory.  She lived in constant fear of doing irreparable harm to
young Herman Jr.  To heighten and exaggerate the anxiety, her thought was plagued by the case of her brother George.  George was
homosexual.  And only she knew why.  When she was six and George was ten, George had taken her dress off.  Her father had caught them
and given George a beating which left him unconscious and with a permanent scar above his right eye.  Mrs. Brown-Figg had her burden of
guilt to bear and if she wore it like a badge—well who could condemn her.  

Herman Jr. liked his uncle George—liked him just a little too much Mrs. Brown-Figg thought, and she was afraid.  Her fears became so intense
that she began to miss lectures, and her attendance at the Unitarian church suffered markedly.  Her pastor, Reverend Goodydo noticed this
drastic change in behavior and sought an appointment with Mrs. Brown-Figg to see if he might be able to help.  After hearing Mrs. Brown-Figg
explain her problem, he offered a suggestion which was both simple and practical. The reverend Goodydo recommended that Mrs.Brown-Figg
purchase for Herman Jr. a male and female hamster.  By observing the hamsters, Herman Jr. was certain to pick up the facts of life in a straight-
forward and compelling fashion.

The hamsters were quickly purchased. Although Herman Jr. wanted to name one of them after his uncle George, at Mrs. Brown-Figg’s
insistence they were named Mama and Daddy.  They were an immediate success.  Herman Jr. was fascinated by Mama and Daddy and watched
them constantly.

One day Mama began to act strangely.  She was in heat.  Daddy began to run around excitedly.  So did Mrs.Brown-Figg.  Herman Jr. spent
hours in front of the small wire cage absorbed in the antics of the two animals.  Each time Daddy would approach Mama she would attack—
biting and scratching at his face until she finally succeeded in clawing his right eye from its socket.

Daddy was at the Vet’s for two weeks.  Mrs.Brown-Figg was now suffering chronic indigestion.  By the time Daddy returned Mama was
noticeably pregnant and showed no signs of her prior aggressive behavior.  Herman Jr.’s interest in Mama and one-eyed daddy never slackened.  
He was constantly kneeling before their cage in silent absorption.

Within a few days, Mama gave birth to seven babies.  Herman Jr. saw everything.  Mrs. Brown-Figg was joyous.  Four days after the birth,
Mama ate the seven babies.  All that remained were the seven, tiny, fuzzy heads lying together on the floor of the cage.  Mrs. Brown-Figg
resumed going to lectures and the Unitarian church.  Herman Jr. did not become a homosexual.  He became a philosopher.
Howling Slim wearing his
ribbon...
Bad Boy Clive
Louisa May Crapshot
Mug the First
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