By REID IFORD
(First printed April 30, 1987)
‘What’s it going to be then, eh?’
Oh my little brothers, how your humble narrator has sought to expand the rassoodocks lurking behind your fair litsos; to interessovat you in messels worthy of your mozgs.
But alas, cal-mozged that thou art, I viddy with strack as my horrorshow messels fall upon deaf ookos. My slarky slovos are for naught.
‘Try pony!’ I cry, to no avail. Your nazzy rassoodocks hear nothing not already believed.
Slooshy? Only what you want sloosh… and more’s the pity. If my slovos seem sarky, there is reason!
I govoreet to express my shilarny that you do not think, or question, but merely mouth gloopy slovos without using the horrorshow sense which should reside within your gullivers.
What shoom! What chepooka! Yes, I am bezoomny!
Encouraged to think; presented with alternative viewpoints which should cause you to question and use your rassoodocks; you only become razdraz.
"Think?" you cry! "Not I; for the absolute truth already lies within my gulliver."
Cal.
There are no perfect truths; no position so choodessny it should not be questioned.
In bits of ultraviolence about the world, you pick sides in the dratsing and bitra, rassoodockless of the inhuman realities of bitra as the red, red krovvy flows freely. Is the dratsing baddiwad? Only if your side is losing.
Oh my brothers, I creech at the gloopy slovos I hear uttered machine-like in place of reasoning and messel.
Is that all you are? Is that the best you can be?
’What’s it going to be then, eh?’ Will you continue to pony only those parts of my gazetta raskazzes polezny to your predetermined beliefs, and run poogly from any veshch which might cause you to question those beliefs?
Will you find no mesto for messels not to your liking, and like shoots refuse to use the mozg Bog gave you?
I offer no appy polly loggies for tread-upon toes. If you will demand so little from yourself, I will demand more.
For you are not a Clockwork Orange.
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