skurvivors

Discussion in the Foundation Lounge one recent evening turned to the curious matter of Moleeds.

The Moleeds are also known as Juju, Juice, and The Stuff. The Moleeds are found eveywhere around the planet, and nowhere in particular. They are the invisible font of justice, balance, hilarity and beauty which eventually smites the wicked, and feeds the lambs.

In the tradition of the prestigious Snark Hunt, the Foundation decided to fund a Moleed Quest.

To shepherd the Quest, the Foundation found it necessary to call upon Foozler Sage Obi wan Aboinker. Mr. wan Aboinker was pried from between two rafter beams in the Foundation Den, where he is wont to hang upside-down and stalk insects.

He was subsidized ten thousand dollars from Foundation coffers, which he pissed away in the fleshpots of Thailand. He kept telling strangers he was On A Quest. Sometimes they asked him for proof. He claimed he'd left his stinkin' badges at home.

Upon his return to the States, Mr. wan Aboinker was hustled to the Foundation basement and dipped in saturnine solvents. A crowd of angry, incontinent dwarves gathered around him. They were feted, ground up, placed in a pewter pipe, and smoked by Mr. wan Aboinker, who subsequently cheered.

Mr. wan Aboinker's report follows.

Fellow Foozlers:

SHEE-IT, THAT HURTS!!!

I begin with a quote from noted cook Owsley Trismegistus, who reportedly uttered it one evening while scuttling briskly away from his beakers, ruefully shaking a scorched hand. His log entry for the evening reads: Fergot me prayers.

In the arrogance of the post-Cartesian West, we assume that spirituality is for weak-minded true-believers. And indeed often it is. But as in physical determinism, every material act also elicits a spiritual wave, and impacts a spiritual dimension, co-existent with the totality of experience. Likewise, spiritual phenomena have great power over material manifestation. This obtains despite the guffaws of the data-point-pounders of determinism and science.

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Foozlers, I have ransacked the globe in Quest of the Moleed grail, yet I found it � a shining example of its Utter Wisdom and Consequence -- on the couch of my own living room

Yes, Foozlers, I was reclining on the sofa, commisserating over my failure in the Quest, my raped pockets, and a persistent, rather embarassing itch, when a giblet of hierarchichal primate scheming called �Survivor� flashed across the screen, like a subliminal soul massage. From out of the mists of ignorance, a grand Moleed Victim strode like a small-town rooster onto the cosmic scene. His name was Michael. I had found my Rosetta Stone of Moleedom.

Michael is a modern American Alpha Dog, a true Type A personality, an avatar of Western masculinity gone wrong. During the Pleistocene, he was Leader of the Pack � or at least thought he was. Little has changed since then.

Michael strutted about the Australian outback, sized up the land and competition, poofed out his chest, and commenced Surviving. He was the Great White Hunter, bringing his makeshift �tribe� back meat morsels he�d speared on his forays into the bush.

One day Big Bad Michael spotted a wild boar, and plotted its demise. At length he ran it down and stabbed it to death, grandly returning to his tribe � and to the squeals of impressed women � with his trophy kill. Laughing uproariously, clowning before his appreciative audience, he then sat and proceeded to bathe in the blood of his prey, smearing the gore across his face in pseudo-native style.