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Moze Has Been Up The Mountain To Speak With Darius

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  • TheTroubadour
    [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
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 8, 2007
      [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.


      *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...

      ...this time.

      # # # # #

      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

      get this,


      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
      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.

      Rich Limacher
      (whom none of yoo true-blues have heard from, too
      for, well, at least now maybe a week or two)
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