[The following is to be read only at the reader's peril of being inundated
with verbiage. Delete NOW!]
And, lo, it came to pass in the daze of forbidding hypertechnology that
Moze, son of Bose the Twin Speakers and befriended of Deke, was besieged
with 9 of the 10 plagues of prophesized technological breakdown, oh no,
which is the road to hell. Somewhere within and without his Internet
connection, the Four Trumpeting Horsepeople of the Apocalypse had been
And they spread far and wide across the cyberspacific land of daemons and
godlessness, and verily preventedeth any or most encrypted angelic
messagings from either Moze or his listserves from reaching out and touching
anyone. Neither, as thus it was programmed, could any of anyone else's
responsive messagings reacheth back and lambaste him.
Thus there was a void. An abyss. The once musically intoned "road to
hell." 'Twas the nether regions of all neither-reachings wherefrom the
wellspring of well-being could neither dump nor be sprung. And Moze retired
unto his study at the back of the earthen bunker to await his fate.
"MOZE!" they all jeered. "Ascend the mountain! Confer with our gods of
technology! Maybe they can hook you back up! Maybe Mumbo-Jumbo, and all of
the other, gods of the Congo, can drum up enough connectivity amidst your
circuitry so as to allow your messagings to see and be seen, to read and be
read, to splotch and be splattered all throughout the kingdom of DOM (and
Doom)--without the pall of *S*P*A*M* being predetermined to rain down upon
your bivouac and whack your pee-pee. Maybe Mumbo-Jumbo can hoo-doo you!"
For verily it was heretofore revealed that Internet Service Providers had
proceeded to provide no service, that Birth and/or Hatchday Daemons'
cheerless greetings were no more to be spread daily across the monitors of
Merrimack, or that plaintive pleadings from amongst all the cognoscenti were
no longer able to plead nor be pled or to bleat nor be bled--for yea, oh
yea, all the Internet Non-Service Providers had afflicted the chosen with
ANTI-*SPAM* ANTIVENOM which heralded, of course, the end of the ANTEBELLUM.
For this meant war, and Moze knew it. His faithless leaders and hapless
followers could no longer get in touch. In truth, their e-missives were all
being manhandled by the Angle of Death-To-Al-SPAM! It was all a gigantic
mishandling of Miss Information anyway, so Moze knelt down before his
monitor... and preyed.
Behold he was emblazoned by a flash.
It was a flash of bedazzlement from the moze unlikely wellspring of all: the
rapidly conflagrating Bush.
"I shall, yea verily, INVADE the Mountain," thought Moze in his repose. "I
shall ring up those idiots at that mosque of Isp and seek to discover why in
the fez my e-mails won't 'e' anymore. Indeed, I shall confer with Darius."
Darius IS Mumbo-Jumbo, god of the Congo, intern-boy / go-fer who answers the
Darius BE dat Mumbo-Jumbo, god of the Congo, surfer-boy / techie-dude who
answers my phone.
Darius HE say: "Um, I'll hafta check, mon. Hole on."
Prior to ascending the Mountain and speaking with Darius, god of the mumbo /
techie of the jumbo, Moze had frantically communicated via cyberspace with
his technologically challenged Internet Service Provider, known far and
hardly at all throughout the land as ye clod McLeod.
Cynthaetica, goddess of the gyro / princess of pooh-pooh, had earlier sent
"e's" to Moze reassuring him that nothing could be done. "Thou hast
purchased thine contract with this program; beest thou content. You can't
quit our club."
Furthermore or less, Cynthaetica, goddess of gumdrops / dudette of spew, had
informed Moze, via "e," that nothing involving emael could be resolved via
email. It had to be done by phone. Hence Moze's vocal ascension of the
Rock Unhandy Mountain.
Darius HE com-mon bak an' HE say, "Dude, we kin mebbe maek yur emael
accuntings... uh... onto the 'white list.' Yo butt-furs, we, umm, we gotta
makeus uppa 'ticket.'"
Thus spake Darius, god of the Congo, Mombo-Mumbo god of the Congo / Hee-Bee
Jee-Bee / whut-up techie hell-fire kewl-dude / internet service provider
customer service representative. Tanks bee to Ja, mon.
Finally dea mon HE say, "Yo giveus a hole mo day, like yeah, 24 hours."
So those be the final voicings this day of Darius, Mumbo-Jumbo god of the
Congo, unto Moze, our anti-hero.
THUS, dig, SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA!
*He* say, yo, like dig, like my email is likely to maybe become
"white-listed" by this time tomorrow (whatever, yo, in dee hail
dys-whitelist be). [presumably... free of spam-blockers?]
And, yea verily, by that time... you all should...
...what all I'm now sending...
# # # # #
Moze has since come down off his high, as well as the mountain, and is
immediately now trying a "test."
So, like, if YOO (an' yoo know hoo yoo are) do not DOO
YOO KNOW HOO,
Mumbo-Jumbo god of the Congo,
Hoo bespake Mo Jive from out of the Congo,
To mee, yo, Moze,
Who furs roze UP to dee Congo
and fought with all his mights and machetes and bongos
and argued and toiled and fought with the mongos
Boom-lay boom-lay boom-lay BOOM*
*[this line plagiarized from Vachel Lindsay]
and retched and defamed, laying waste as his tongue goes
and marched up the Mountain, ho!, single-file
In rows of roes, braiding corn-rows up his nose
speaking with Darius with all that he's got
squishing that sucker all down to his toes
and snorting this snot out thru his nose:
"Darius, dude, god of the Congo
Mumbo-Jumbo god of the corn row
Mombo-Dufus at the do-nothing Help Desk
Ja save you son, and give me a rest
Just make ALL MY EMAIL SAIL RIGHT THRU
Or I swear Voodoo will hoo-doo you
My cyber-spacific Voodoo will hoo-doo you
You and your Isp and its 'cust serv' too!
My cyber-spacific Voodoo and ALL of the spaceheads
Will hoodoo and voodoo and hoodoo you!
And all of you techies in cyber-world, too!!"
Thus Spake The Troubadour.
(whom none of yoo true-blues have heard from, too
for, well, at least now maybe a week or two)