It's Biting Me

Coleen Numbletewth, a long-time favorite in the donkey factories, author of such sleepy wonders as "It's Biting Me" and "Oh, My Knee," was recently dumbfounded by what she found at her front doorstep. (Well, it's not really much of a doorstep, more of a driveway, or a driveway with a fear of intimacy. It's sort of an unfortunate condition for a driveway, and kind of makes it more of a driveaway. The newspaper delivery person refuses to set foot on it, because there's something psychologically damaging about being rejected by a slab of concrete.) Anyway, back to the recount of Numbletewth (ah-ha-ha, 1,2,3-basso profundo). The Daily Donkey reports that there has been a nasty outcry about what some of the public (those outside of the donkey factories, because she has a horizontalizing effect on those within them), see as her frequent leanings towards limbcentrism in her texts. While these horrible accusations were nothing short of shocking, Numbletewth had to address them quickly, because being seen as a limbist could be devastating for any public figure.

You see, in this dismal time of the donkey factory, there are an increasing number of limb-related injuries and complete disfigurements due to the ungenerous (or maybe too generous) nature of the manufacturing process of the donkeys. For this reason, the world is divided into a number of camps, but the three most general are the limbed, the semi-limbed, and the limbless. As one might guess, those in the limbed category are generally more capable of disseminating information, due to the limbcentric nature of our current information propagation machinery. While knowledge of this discrepancy may be found in the cerebral murks of what most people consider as "known by their person," it is not generally emitted in public as an individual vocal projection by those whose physical being poses a question when referring to limbs, and it certainly is not disseminated by those with seminiferous limbs. Thus, as you can see, to bear this inequality into the town squares--or what is, more precisely, ever since the Urban Cloaking System defeated the center-oriented grids where people lived in close proximity, irregularly-shaped and -distributed concrete blankets of pomp and stadium seating with sporadic population--is to illuminate a hangnail or an ingrown hair follicle in the pink-purple light of the donkey factory night.

Truly, truly, what a sight. Oh my, what a horrible blight. Something bites me in the night. Tiss, tiss, a bumbling fright. (These last lines are more entertaining if you mouth them in a Winnie the Pooh voice; honey can be an efficient mouth motion manipuator).

Choraling: The gloom of glee

Choraling is a favorite pastime of those do-gooders from the land of good posture, bad breath, awkward stage presence, and zealous makeup application. The accumulation of public offenders perpetrating this awful challenge to all that is free and living refer to themselves as clubs of glee (emotive glee, not some old English song form). They forcibly smile while they contort their mouths and project noises in unison from within their netherparts, daring the donkeys to bray, sway, or walk away.

Damn't I rhymed. Their power is even stronger than I thought.

You see, the Factory owners have brought these clubs of glee to "perform" their acts of sadism in public places. They erect small platforms, set up microphones and p.a.'s (usually with automatic fits of feedback), and demand an audience from passersby (this also includes those not passing, but presiding, or performing a function, in a space within earshot). Many animals are unable to discern the true motive of these clubs of glee with their amplified sounds of domination, and they stand their with amiable and placid looks on their faces, believing they enjoy what is descending on them; but, for those who can hear the screeching, the result is one of sheer psychic pain and complete physical captivation. The "audience" is unable to leave until the projected noises from within their netherparts cease to project. Part of what makes this torturous is that your mind is still free to wander, in fact, it is welcomed to amble, as there is very little surface for your mind to grasp. Thus, the more compassionate of the clubs of glee will perform at very high decibel levels, overwhleming longer trains of thought in the waves of aural doom.

"La, la, la, da, di, di, la," is like a panther in a parking lot waiting to pounce on the helpless.

Poor donkey.

Resisting Arrest

The assembly line is pulverizing itself. The donkey parts lie on the floor, leering back at the misshapen belt. There is an ungodly sound of wobbling industrial rubber and unloving metal. The button sees the misshapening, but it can't press itself. This button has morals. How can it override the lack of pressure on its glossy exterior? Would it cease to be a button by doing so? Surely, these and other questions must have been running through the mysterious innards of the button at a time like this. Surely.

I think the world needs more courageous buttons.

Depressing Lag in Production

So, this will brief. There's a chance that I have missed the boat to be read by one or two people (as a total readership), which is a shame. In fact, it is highly probable that I am typing up words that will only be displayed on my screen. I am glad that writing to oneself in public is considered to be less dangerous than speaking to oneself in public.

A Brief Note: on the paranoia of an other's paranoia

Paranoia. It is difficult to speak of another person's paranoia, because in so doing, you are, in a sense, indicating one's own paranoia about paranoiacs. Of course, I know that if you can keep your paranoia of "full-blown" paranoiacs limited to a few people then you might not be as paranoid as the "full-blown" paranoiacs, but there is, yet, an indication of paranoia to be sure.

To be clear, the need to derail donkey factories is in no way a product of some sort of paranoid delusion. I can be sure of this, because I can say for sure that there is no one who is out to get me, and only me. This is need is a product of my previous indifference to the plight of the donkeys, and my subsequent realization (and shock) that this indifference was a consequence of my vile self-absorption and my lethargy towards all things beyond the limits of me. Thus, I felt a tingling somewhere within my being, nay, an intention, a feeling of some strength pulling me towards the poles of decisiveness in acting to stop the desecration of the donkeys. It is with this feeling of some strength, that I am directing my attention towards the events of the plight of the donkeys and their factories.

Factories: A Forgettable Story

It's been a long time since the story of the donkey factory has been relayed or reconstructed in such a way that was visible to people outside of the complex. There are many reasons for this. I will focus on a few: one, being that lethargy is contagious, and actively transmitted among donkeys, donkey handlers, and their administrators; two, donkeys can't speak human, nor write it; three, the handlers generally express themselves in grunts, groans, and hand gestures, none of which makes for great storytelling outside of handler circles; four, the administrators don't believe in anything that doesn't have a recognizable paper trail, and lore such as this, doesn't normally have a verifiable source past one or two generations, because it's, well, forgettable. But, really what isn't these days. We produce to forget; or better yet, we produce forgetting, the same way that we produce donkeys (except that only donkey production can be stopped; forgetting is hard to remember to stop producing as long as it is being produced).

How to get impurities out of your donkey: Part I

First, and, possibly, most important, consult with detergent dignitaries (or the Sultans of Shine and Sheen). While this may seem a little counter-intuitive (as they are generally considered to be tainted due to their categorical inclusion in the realm of the most-soiled exemplars of bureaucracy, the dignitary), detergent dignitaries (or the Sultans of Shine and Sheen) are undeniably the best consultants when it comes to purging your donkey of unsightly impurities. It is, in fact, because they are nominally "pure", but in reality, are "impure"; and, in addition, it is due to the requirements of their posts that they maintain an appearance of anti-taint, that they are the most capable of negating unwanteds. They can both physically and spiritually (to perpetuate a nasty little dualism) eradicate the shit out of your donkey.