Marooned

on Satellite Island. Or as I like to call it, the Land of Noecholand.

How did you get here?

A storm did brew and send me here, after rescuing me first from the doldrums, but you know, too much rescue.

And why Noecholand?

Oh, that's because of the invisible, inpenetrable layer of sonicloud surrounding the island. I can't communicate with anyone outside- all radio broadcasts get nixed.


How are you communicating with me?

I am you.

Oh.

So I just sit here and listen to the same song endlessly floating around the island.

What song?

Tiger in my Tank.

Is going to go extinct?

Yes, eventually.

From the Talented Jinx

The Philosopher, Jinx, once said to a consortium of gathered:

See more of the sky in the morning. See more of the echoes of your childish friendships. See more of the paint in the garage that never made it on that back porch. Shut your eyes and listen to your heart and then look at your ears and beat your fists.

I can only be a person to other people. I can only be a dog to the spotted hyena.


I can help you open an old wound. I can help your healing hands.
Indeed, indeed. Some poets are hard-nozed, making the worst of words rhyme so angrily. And then taking the credit! My old friend, the one with the slanted eyes and the angry mouth- "I’ll kick you in your cue-ball head, you whore!" All because I confused his hometown. Maybe by only a few thousand miles.


Aye, said the sheep with curling iron. I will style your head in a stylish scorn. I will desperately pursue you until the end of the red evening.
We couldn’t sleep with all the buzzing flies.

Mr. Jinx, what is that on your head?
A lifetime of lies, little one. A lifetime of money and fast cars and lies and women and lies.

And the kid was eating the food, but the blue circles, that was his food. And they started to fly up into his face, and he just didn’t even flinch, like he was the master of them. Animals don’t get trained that well. And these circles, they would go to then end of the world for the kid. For its master. To the end of the world and beyond, even. To fetch the hotel-boat with Champagne buckets.

Hoap Spaash

The foot goes where it is not wanted and the Loko bear sticker on the back of the ISUZU catches the eye. The hot tar globlets from the street paver get caught up in the leg hairs and the knees suddenly look chalky. It is all of a sudden late on a tuesday which seemed so like a sunday early on. And the goatee man with the belly and sandals is skipping along the beachside and laughing about the fact that no body got hurt in that whole incident. Whilst the insects drone on and on about nothing and the stomach makes a pitiful sound. There will be no food for you, for a worker earns his keep and thou hast done nothing. And the master of the worker has nothing to show for his time, either. So he, too will go out of time, and because he didn't earn his keep, the end is near. Who says a frisbee can't be a helmet? Well, we tried it out and now there is a causalty. But a funny one in the time of the bulldog. Goodbye, greasy pizza, goodbye orange carpet, goodbye other things that burn in the driveway. Goodbye.

Jinx the Spinx

I am looking at a flaming giraffe and I think that is a good thing, but a little sad. What would a flaming giraffe smell like? Probably clover and salt jelly. I bet that it would take years for a giraffe to completely flame out. They could destroy miles and miles of farmland. They could also breed and have little flaming giraffe that are much more flame resistant and this proceeds on and on and then before you know it, you gotta new breed. So I think there should be a coalition to avoid this burning giraffe revolution. Like a reverse animal rights society because their creed is to destroy all flaming giraffe on the spot.

damgog

Damgog wont touch me! Damgog wont touch me! Damgog wont touch me!!!
Parents often tell their children of Damgog, who, if he touches you, will give you a severe skin irritation, which will be very evident. He is a vulturesque man with laserbead eyes and fat little stuffy fingers. He touches you if you are a bad kid, like swearing in public, kicking innocent things, groping, playing Kookina, or some other foolishness. It is a legend as old as all get out. And there is a song that children sing as they bathe and get ready for the day. It is the song that I put at the top of the page. It is a way of preparing themselves mentally for the task of being good for sixteen hours. Or more.
Is there really a Damgog? Theories are as varied as the different types of skin irritations attributed to him. There was an old hermit crow-keeper names Dnaago, who, due to the close contact with crows, developed skalefinger, a very contagious skin disease. But this is inconclusive as to whether or not the real Damgog exists. Damgog is a timeless piece of a child's upbringing. He is as popular on greeting cards as Norkie, the bumbletree or the Spirit of Dentistry: Jiles.
Please investigate this and don't let Damgog touch you.

Less professional competitor

well, here is a little taste of the Netherworld cookbook: Scalloped ant stones: 66 calories, 7 mg of sodium, 7-0 oz. of nightmares. Take five or twenty ant stones and lightly baste them in motoroyl. Do not use any number other than either of the aforementioned. IT WILL HURT. So after basting the stones, put them into a MYplex saucer, with just a spatter of ring butter, and a coconut tail. Make this simmer.Release the veggietigers into the blender, and blend for two hours minimum, unless you WANT an ulcer. Pour the blended veggietigers into the simmering saucer and let heat for twenty seconds. Add beetjuice and just a pinch of salt. Serve cold over minced rice and beans. Enjooy!

The Bsehnkyvik Co. Presents...

I get lots of emails about many of my recipes and some of them are threatening! Or at least threatening in the way that they would sound like, "Give me the ingredients or I'll slice you!" or also, "I'm not kidding, I want to know the secret cook time on the bunyon burgers or my wild niece with the hooked hand and the stelth operations training will window-gouge your throat!" or, "I hate you're food 'n you kin dye!"
Well, some of the time I get tickled by an email and I just want to share it with you.
I recieved this from a Jan Poersal of Newington, New Hampshire and she writes:
"Loeay, I love your show and your food. I eat it always. And I love to share it with my others. But I try and pass it off as my good cooking but then someone always says something like 'oh...I feel faint' and I totally flip out and say something like 'don't blame me this is Loeay's recipe and I stole it and I KNOW IT SUCKS!' but then the person is like, 'I mean faint in a good way, or maybe I meant full.' Aint that the totally FINAEU!?"
-your one, JAN
HA. Well, I hope to keep getting good mail like that, but in the meantime, here is a tip about my scruptions: when broiling the Beastover Stew, try and tinkle a little bit of garlic sharp in just before the foam emulsifies. It will make the stew OH SO AHAAAAA! GOOD.
Bye for now,
Loeay, Chef. Esq.

The Guru Ties His Own Salad

The problem is the inaccuracy of people's thoughts. For example, one man may think he it touching a snake, while he feels the nose of the elephant. Another man is thinking that man is blind, why does he get to touch the animals, while another man is thinking I must shoot that trespassing man witha a stragler dart to stop his breaking zoo policy. All three men are the same man. You see the problem with this- it's just inaccurate. For example, if the first man is going to make any sort of esoterical connection to the outside thought pattern of the cumulative masses, he must verbalize this bit of mental slime.
But how can he speak when HE CANNOT SEE?
It is this paradox in which we live- the art of the tongue is not constrained to the eyes, but it is the close brother thereof- so can a brother speak outside of his brother's will- no. Not in this realm of positivistic relativism. For if one speaks outside of the other, the two are no longer one, and we've already asserted that the are THE SAME MAN.
Granted, this takes place in the hypothetical setting of the "zoo" or as Heinsache coined- the THOUGHTZOO or EIGANEZXU in his native tongue/eye.
The answer would seem to rest in the person of the giraffe, who can lick its eye, this bringing balance to the situation.
Thank the lucky stars for this next question: whomever answers it comes from, You WIN.
Q: What is the best outcome for the laden- repose or dispose?
WHY?

It's Not How You Think 'Tis

Newt Tyson, the last great Yell Pony of the great western slopes of California, took off his thought balloon to bemuse himself a bit. Then a laser came and that was aweful. Full of awe, that is, by the meaning of the first of the word, the man was struck by awe of it.
"Pooleez!" scooted he of the pony, and immediately begin to write down those emotions. The flutter of the lightnings, the bemoan of the nightcamel, the other things, too. It seemed like so many thoughts were going up and around in his head, or in his mind. It was all because of the laser. But whence had it come? And why?
Well, thought Newt, we must linger it.
And so he did, and it was a long time after that the source became known.
It came about as such:
The day was Hatday, middle of the month, end of the weekend. He found himself in the foundry negotiating a new bridle, when the person of Jena Jwaough came over to him, and said so in her sing song voices, :I (la lo la) did zap (lee la loo...do l ado no lateena!) that la-(hay ha hee ah ha ha) zer!
"goodnite" said Newt, and he then and there took her hand for marriage. And the rest of his days were spend working with they pony and then sometimes SOMETIMES his wife would have the laser go and then his mind would expand.
One of these times he saw the future, and tis this:
The plesiopods and the saurothons and the mesotrophs and the arbotrachiacs came to the consensus that they were their own god, and therefore prayed to themselves for the betterment of their lives, and then sang to themselves for thanks for their betterment and then made themselves clean so to better present themselves to themselves, but then cursed themselves when smashed their thumbs in the doors, and then became complacent with themselves, and then questioned their own existence, and then stopped thinking abou themselves at all, and then hated themselves and then destroyed themselves.
Newt had a headache after that, so he went and slept beneath the Rose of Jericho in the backyard.