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Necessity and the alligator stole the butter snowflakes!
Let the ball of ages glorify our Lord Hicropates!
Oigo oiga Huzza!!

Age. 238
Gender. Female
Ethnicity. Baboon
Location , Antarctica
School. Arizona St Univ
» More info.
The Festival on the Moon.
Every year, we gather around a large campfire the size of the moon. Absorbing the telekinetic energy waves from the fire, we are transported to the pale planet and party till the owls grow constipated with love. It's called the Festival on the Moon.

This year, there was no festival on the moon. I'm afraid the tradition will be broken forever, as the fire was stolen by Poseiden, son of Odysseus and goddess of the Seven Sultanic Samurais.

Only in a such a bitter state of finality do we truly appreciate the gentile customs of the past and cherish how one sudden event miraculously became an annual event to be practiced by all. And so, we mustn't ever forget Young Jung, who founded -- quite accidentally -- the Festival on the Moon.

No one knows when Young Jung was born, or whether he truly young. With the sacred artifacts of the Jeweled Phoenix, we can only ascertain one thing -- that Young Jung was born atop of Mount Olifirus. For those of you who flunked elementary school geography, Mount Olifirus is located beyond the tree of eternal height and betwixt the toes of time. It is a mountain as high as the sun, but as short as the moon. And, it is this very paradoxical whim that set Jung to befall the fate that he destined to befall.

You see, at some time between midnight and quarternight, everynight, a man with no beard climbs to the top of Mount Olifirus. He is a feared and wretched man with bones as thick as his skin and an axe as powerful as Captain America's bloody thighs. At the mountain's peak, he sacrifices three children to his ancestors. One child is for poverty, one for pride, and the last one for power.

On the night of the twenty five satellical eclipsii, the man with no beard brought Jung as the sacrificial child of pride. As a man of no pride and a chemical propensity towards saturnic ameobic bonds, Jung's body began to aggressively react to the high level of lead in the mountainous air of Olifirus. You see, as one born on the mountain, he naturally cannot survive on the mountain. And so, his arms began to wiggle madly like strands of seaweed in the Dead Sea. His legs began to bounce up and down like the belly of a giant laughing Reckirusous.

In a sudden fit of despondency and immediate termination, Young Jung's body and soul exploded into a giant fire. Mount Olifirus exploded in flames! It melted instantly, killing millions upon millions of protistas and innocent solicitors that made up its eco-system.

And so, the first campfire the size of the moon was witnessed by all. They came to witness this dramatic and powerful scene, only to be teletransported onto the moon, where a festival was taking place. The festival lasts for all but 20 minutes.

Afterwards, Mount Olifirus grows back to its daunting size. Trees, shrubs, and Coocarkuku flowers grow like the fine hairs on a baby wallyboo. But, each year, on the night of the dancing bellybutton, Mount Olifirus explodes again, and melts to the ground. All the local inhabitants come to see the daring sight and celebrate on the moon.

That, my angelic friends, is the Festival on the Moon -- a cherised tradition, which now, sadly, may be lost forever. Damn you o' merciless Posieden -- son of Odysseus and goddess of the Seven Sultanic Samurais! Damn you!

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Rainbow of Butterflies
This morning, I woke up at day-break. I ate a delicious meal of peacock & parakeet pancake with chopped strawberries and kawalibroons sprinkled on top that my boyfriend Takilaboya brought back from Hong Kong.

When then went to the park to play basketball, only to find the court turned into a Walmart. Angered, we went inside the Walmart and asked to see the manager.

The manager, a young pigeon with the eyes of an ox and temper of an American automobile, came to see us and asked us if we wanted to play hide and go seek with the rattlesnakes. I said yes. My boyfriend said he had to go run some errands. I knew that was an excuse. He then jumped into the sky and flew away. I never saw him again, but who cares?

After all the clouds dissipated, I finally found the last rattlesnake and proceeded to eat it. It stammered, "Please, fair one, eat me not! If a moose were to cross the river of Phoegis, would mosquitos still sing beautiful hymns of antelopes grazing in the wild swamps of Babylon?"


The rattlesnake continued. "If all the grass in the world were to melt this very instant, would wild monkeys emerge from the Russian caviar factories carrying plates of butter and singing proud songs of courage and love?"


The rattlesnake then said. "I wasn't born a rattlesnake. I was a born on a meadow from the hair of a siamese cat. I still remember the day I was born, because it was the same day that the Calvary of Guani stormed the Palace of Toys."

I was touched by this young rattlesnake's story. Together, we cried and we laughed.

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The Platonic Narcissist
Heya heya! It's such a glorious day on the Island of Ishbu.

My name is Jazagoya and this is my first NuTang entry! This entry isn't about though. It's about my friend, the Platonic Narcissist.

I met the Platonic Narcissist a few days ago. The day was a hybrid of Saturday and November. He was eating frogs and leeches swimming down the babbling brook. "Iki-nama-gojaiki Arri irranina!" I shouted.

He looked at me with a platonic and narcissistic expression. "Good day mate," he barked. He then pulled a dog from his ear and began to stroke it gently, until the dog fell into a deep coma. When the dog awoke, it had the face of a rabbit and heart of a liver.

The dog said, in between breaths of freedom and independence, "My name is Jean Claude Van Damme. I was born a dog, but now I am a rabbit with a heart of liver. But, this monologue isn't about me. It's about the Pale Male.

"The Pale Male was a male so pale, his shadow was made of albino ginger ale. He often liked to smoke red herring under a coconut tree that bore fruits of labor.

"I met the Pale Male one day at the grocery store. He was smelling a smelly apple. I was smelling a smelly pineapple. Our eyes met and locked. Unfortunately, neither of us had the key to unlock our eyes.

"We had to consult the High Priest of Baboonertia. He left for vacation, so we had to drink green tea made from the tears of a fallen angel. After we had our disgusting, yet flavorful beverage, our eyes slowly began to unlock. It was this time--and only at this time--when the Pale Male spoke the first words of his life.

"'Everyone calls me Charles Gorwinski. However, my real name is the Pale Male. But, this isn't going to be about me. It's about my friend, Jazagoya.

"'Jazagoya is what some my describe as a gourd with no beard. She likes to dance with no chump change under her eyelid and no basket of pawns waiting to deliver that fateful message your aunt Sally (you know, the one that always knows what time it is, even if all the waterfalls in the world began to turn into fireworks) always has tucked away under her blouse of a million sacrificial Easter cocoons brewing a pot for the festival of Navidos.'"

And that is how I became friends with the Platonic Narcissist!

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