The fact is, I find it simply too depressing to write about how events are unfolding in our world. True, what happens in the Third Galaxy is not a picnic in summer sunshine, but at least I know that, in the end, everything turns out all right for that poor world, when the Alien Veggies in their strange ships suddenly appear in their skies.
Alas, such a happy turn of events is most unlikely to happen in our world!
If we, so to speak, turn our world into a shit-bucket, it will remain a shit bucket and the lives of our children will obviously be, the kind of lives you have to live when you live in a shit-bucket.
Therefore, for the sake of those who have not been following this blog very long, I will repeat a disclaimer I made in one of my earliest posts:
These small tales and glimpses of events refer to occurrences which may someday happen (or perhaps are happening even now!) in a universe parallel to our own which is known to me as the Third Galaxy. Therefore, although somewhat adherent to the facts (such as they are) they have virtually nothing to do with our own world.
The reader would make a grave error to infer that events and characters delineated here are a parodies of people, places, states or events in our world – nothing could be further from the truth! Such a thought is not only ridiculous, it is probably illegal – or soon will be.
It is not my intention in any way, shape or form to satirize, make fun of or ridicule any person, living or dead, in the real world (with the possible exceptions of Attila the Hun and Otto the Orkin Man).
My sole justification for presenting what is found in these few pages is, in some small way, to contribute to the prevention of such things ever happening in our world.
El-Ishman often refers to the poems it transmits to me as being composed by someone it calls “an unknown poet”, the reason being that “known poets” have a tendency to disappear in the Third Galaxy, especially after Ronald Rexona becomes the Supreme Hole. However, as this piece supposedly comes from a collection known as “The Arrogant Prophecies”, I strongly suspect that Ichabod Rain was responsible for this piece and that El-Ishman, for its own reasons, is being coy with me.
The flower burst into the night,
a blossom budding bleeding stubs of sick delight.
All who see it lose their sight,
madly rage and praise the “Majesty-of-Might”.
Some S.O.B. has got a scheme
to make love live upon a diet of whipped-cream!
Perhaps you say, “It’s a mad-man’s dream!”
I swear to you: I’ve seen it all on my TV screen!
Let me tell you what they’ll do:
first they kill “some-arabs” and then “some-jews”;
Ham-bar-Ger exclaims, “That’s not so nice!”
I see him smile as he slowly turns down the lights.
That is why we seldom do
really see the killer’s face on the evening news...
But please, try to remember this:
All the bombs are in the hands of terrorists!