Comrades,

Sister Massively Opiated has drawn my attention to the difficulties of the tin-foil chapeaux. I personally haven't bothered with them too much; anyone with as much constant exposure to Bruno doesn't need to worry about receiving the right signals and rejecting the wrong ones, but Sister does raise a valid point.

First of all, the tin-foil is a good start, but it's not really all that's required. Vacuum tubes use mu metal, which is an insulator against magnetic fields. The tin-foil needs therefore to be wrapped around a base of mu metal. This is the best insulator known against iniquitous magnetic fields, such as Faux News or the dreaded Limbaugh Beast broadcasting on the AM waves.

And to act as insulation, which is required in Kanuckistan, as Sister reminds me, we shall wrap the tin-foil hat in the finest red flannel taken from people being re-educated in Anita Dunn's camps. Where the being being reeducated get to watch a video of her 24/7 fishing around with Anita's tongue like a dog eating peanut butter.

But this will block out the required radio waves from Laika, the noble space dog, who circles above us. And what about the transmissions from George Soros? I get his transmissions from Saturn on my bridgework, but the new mu-metal tin-foil chapeaux will block that out. And what about that most equal comrade, Janeane Gawdawfulo? She broadcasts from Alpha Centauri, materializing on earth only to discuss racism with Keith Olbermann.

And then there is our Many Titted Empress, whose transmissions must never be missed. Also dear Nansky Peloski. Both of those 24K screeching bitches glorious comrades fly all the time and on their own airplanes--"Zoom! Zoom!--which means that we must devote airwave space for them.

The only solution is a superheterodyne mu-metal, tin-foil hat, attached to a phased antenna array, and further filtered by phase-locked loops. And the signals will fed directly into the brain. This, coupled with Jiffi-Lobo, America Left, and the DKos, will ensure that we never have a thought of our own a disloyal thought.

Heil Anita! By the way, Anita, dear, it was Meow who woke up drunk with Mao's body. Not me.

Now does anyone have any idea how to put a fruit stand on top of the new mu-metal tin-foil chapeau? Inquiring Brunos want to know.

Dearest Brother Theo,

Unquestionably, the most important signal for the 'made' progressive (what other kind is there, as they do not occur in nature of their own accord... another reason we can be certain there is no God... If there were a supreme being, or rather, a supreme being in the religious sense, she would have made progressives somewhere between "Let there be light" and "Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life."... In fact, I'm quite sure that some yobbo religioso cut out verse 1:19:B of Genesis right after verse 1:19:A "And the evening and the morning were the fourth day." where it said, "And at around 3:47 a.m, on that fourth day, God gathered together the unsullied firmament and with it she made a progressive. And she saw that it was good." Of course, we'll never know unless one of our freedom fighting Muslim brethren happen to stumble across a large amphora in some yet undiscovered cave in the Sinai, and it contains something worth more to sell than to burn for fuel, much as the discoveries at Nag Hammadi brought us Gnosticism. Perhaps of Gospel of Levi X or some such previously unheard of disciple of the divine carpenter... )... But I digress....

... the most important signal for the 'made' progressive must needs be the signal beamed to us by our beloved Hero Space Dog, Laika. Just as no progressive can truly be made by any other than Our Supreme Being, The Glorious Incarnadine Trapezoid, Red Square, The People's Direktor.

While I'm dropping in, for I am only stopping by for a moment while I amputate the black gangrenous frostbitten edges of my right fluke and apply a little Polysporin™ to it before I rebandage it and set out again on my hunt for Pamela Anderson... why Ms. Anderson, you ask? Because as it is anathema in Kanadistan to beat our fellow sentient creatures to death with a club for their pelts, and this had been beaten into our consciousnesses by our venerable Brothers and Sisters in PETA, of which Ms. Anderson is a spokesperson... and since Sir Paul McCartney is overseas and so not easily within reach and his ex-wife is missing half a leg and so her pelt is damaged, and Ms. Anderson's is both whole and on the same continent... and as she has made it clear that I would be a bad dolphi... ahem... person... were I to club a seal to death for its pelt in order to line my tin hat, and as winter is upon us in the Kanadistanjian Gulag that is Toronto (much like Vladivostok), I must therefore, in haste, find an appropriate donor to offer up its pelt, and since our venerable Brothers and Sisters in PETA have made it clear that beating seals to death is bad, I can only imagine that the only approved substitute would be a PETA member... they are, after all, continually holding themselves up as examples and so I can only surmise it is from a PETA member that I must get the pelt with which to line my tin hat.... and I have made a study of Ms. Anderson's dimensions, via fotografic evidence and have calculated that her breastesses area alone would be enough to line several tin chapeau... and as we must all buckle down in these hard times and make due with as little as possible, clubbing only one PETA member to death for their pelt seemed the most politically correct option, and given Ms. Anderson's most ample pelt... well... I'll send you a hat...

But as I have said, I am only dropping by my beloved home for a moment to say hello and bandage my fluke and minister to a few other wounds, as winter has come early to the Gulag... in fact, I don't believe we actually had summer this year... clearly another symptom of the overall warming of the spherical spaceship that is our home until we can establish our very own (but not in the sense of ownership) Progressive World of Next Tuesday™ on Potymkingrad H₂0... probably due to the melting of the ice at the poles and so a higher degree of cloudiness and so less sun in the immediate vicinity of said melting poles... But I digress...

I must therefore continue my hunt for Ms. Anderson before the sun sets for the long dark winter months and we are left to huddle in "The Complex", our underground bunkers the only thing keeping the wailing northern winds at bay... I must find her, club her to death, and by club her to death, I don't mean take her out for a drink and some dancing, and then... well... I also have to urge the pod to finish collecting and caching our winter stores so that we can hunker down and not turn to cannibalism as happened in the dark (dark as in tragic) winter of 2007/08 which found me in the hospital if you remember... and of course, Ms. Anderson will also help in this regard although I must remind Aki that her breastesses implants will explode if microwaved and are not edible in any regard but would make good toys to toss about in the pool in Bunker 5, and we'll have to cook her in the manner of a hare which also lacks fat and so is a mite stringy if not stewed long... but it's a good way to make use of those root vegetables on which me must subsist as our stores diminish over the course of our enforced hibernation... But I digress...

And so I am off again on my quest for the means of survival in this, our harsh northern environs, but promise in due course to return to the bosom of my family... my true family, and not my thoughtcriminal™ biological parents who I turned in to... well.... to myself, since I'm the Kommissar of Housekeeping and Disappearances... to my true family, The Party™ and The People's Cube™ which is and always will be my haven and the only place I can act out my most sociopathi... ahem... artistic urges and exercise my creativity with the freedom and full support of my fellow Kommissars and any of the proletariat I deem necessary for the practice of my art... I have missed everyone while I have been away but I do promise to return shortly when I have taken care of a few more of life's necessities... For I cannot stay away...

But before I go, I must ask forgiveness for my tardiness in responding to Comrade Otis (thank you... it was quite entertaining and amusing and I have watched it several times), Comrade Hero Space Dog Laika (Thank you for the wonderful surprise and forgive my self-imposed exile... I haven't quite figured out what to do with it yet, but it calls to me, and not in an undisturbing way... sometimes I am sure it is watching me, but it could just be a rogue Kulak Monster... Aki reports that butter has been disappearing again and Chicken Sushi woke up to find her flukes covered in bite marks several nights ago... so thank you so much for the freaky-assed... thing)... and to Comrade Tovarich - Bwana my friend... it arrived last week and I have been enjoying it, particularly in the middle of the night which is generally when I'm awake... I must retalia... reciprocate... Arigato gozaimasu - hope I got that right, as in, I haven't retalia... reciprocated yet... But I will... (How can I not?)...

And so out into the winter waste to find the elusive Ms. Anderson. I wish someone at PETA had had the foresight to outfit her with a tracking collar, particularly given the risk of her implants being recalled and the potential need to find her in a jif... But I digress...

Farewell, dear comrades... I shall return before you can fill out a request for increased rations, in triplicate, and have it lost by Chairman Mousevich, in triplicate... but only because he forgets that he's lost things and so must lose them again and then thrice until he forgets about it altogether... But I digress...

Hugs and Kisses...
Sister Massively Opiated

The only reason the US military replaced steel helmets with kevlar is that the old metal helmets blocked their mind control waves. This is also the reason that wounded veterans with steel plates in their head receive "medical" discharges.

Need proof? Without mind control, who in their right mind would ever fight in some imperialist war? I rest my case.

I think that we need to have free medical care for the SEIU--and with everyone who joins there is a free check up in the clinic. Which will of course entail a metal plate in the head.

That way they can be conveniently told, "Solid, tax-paying middle-class, pillar-of-the-community citizens legally protesting on Main Street while picking up their trash. Go bust heads."

Dearest Sister,

I have been mulling your assertion that <i>de natura</i> all Made Progressives are made because we do not occur in nature. As the Vatican has made peace with evolution I suspect that we really do occur in nature, with no disrespect to God. After all, any supreme being worth her salt would use tools, no? Do we think that Fabergé made his eggs with his own hands? Unless he had talons like Rahm Emanuel's or hooves like our Many Titted Empress.

During that first billionth of a second after the Big Bang the universe had dozens of spatial dimensions, and we Made Progressive were one of them. In fact we were the most important dimension because only with Made Progressives can we regress through the Event Horizon. What happened before the Big Bang? And by that I do not mean any affair of John Edwards'.

I'll tell you. Made Progressives. One cannot imagine the universe before the Big Bang, can one? But one can if one is a Made Progressive because the Universe is merely an adjunct to our sense of self-worth and <i>amour propre</i>.

This is of course the same thing as your theological assertion above--after all, aren't all teleological assertions essentially the same? Except of course for that singularity Barack, His H'Oliness, Obama. And it is entirely possible that we could find that missing bit of our originating document when the rest of the Rose Law Firm billing records are found.

What is this, I have to say, unhealthy obsession about La Anderson? I recall how once you chastised me, nay, castigated me, about the Couric Head. You recall that I wanted to keep it, even though the flies were drawn to it and not the cat shit in the sand box. I thought it had magical powers but you convinced me that it's best thrown into a volcano.

The same with La Anderson's pelt. Are you sure that you want this? lining your Superheterodyne, phased-antenna-array, mu-metal, certified Laika receiver?

Repent, dearest Sister; call off Chicken Sushi and snuggle down in the cold of the Kanadistan winter.

Zibizzzztttt..... beeeeeeep ack urk *twitch* Zibizzzztttttt....

Ahhh... My Dearest Theo,

How I've missed your singularly circularly solipsistic reasoning... It is so comforting... so warm and fuzzy... so dizzyingly successful in it's self-referential certainty. But try to say that five times fast!

Certainly, I cannot do anything but agree, although I don't think when it comes to consideration of the singularity Barack, His H'Oliness, Obama, that I'm up to cogitation on black holes just at the mo... it's a severe pain day on the old arthritis index in the T-dot. That said, I must congratulate you on your ontological-cosmological proof of the existence of God, where logic has previously failed such worthies as Kant.

As for my so-called unhealthy obsession with Ms. Anderson's pelt... to be quite honest, any pelt would do as long as it has an appropriate insulation factor. My focus on Her Bustiness was simply a matter of the confluence of convenience and political correctness, but if you have a suitable donor to hand, then by all means... Just don't suggest Michael Moore. He scares the polar bears.


"I Swear, this finger-monkey was humongous, and I think he was rabid too. He tried to bite me!"

In any case, I must return to the hunt as winter will soon be upon us. I do promise that if I come across an equally appropriate pelt dispenser, I'll make use of it in a jiffy without giving Ms. Anderson a second thought, though it will mean stopping by CheMart to pick up Aki a large rubber ball to bat around the pool during the dark winter months, in place of her implants. That boy loves his water polo!

And yes, Red Rooster. I can only concur. Zibizzzztttt indeed!

Meh!
SMO

Ah, dear Sister,

Only you would appreciate to the fullest my ontology. As you know, my training was in the math of computer science and so am quite familiar with recursion. Most people do not know however that recursion as a concept is mentally as addictive as crystal meth--once you drink deeply of the concept of recursion you place yourself at the top of a greased slide down into the very depths of solipsism and it is so dangerous that I give myself my own colorectal exams, which is a topic for another day, or perhaps no other day.

The problem of course is that in math there must be a terminating condition or the recursion never ends, and you should never have left recursion when you play with language--it is computationally intractable. But being a Mad, or Made, Progressive, the first part of my brain that I had excised at Jiffi-Lobo was the personal-responsibility part, and personal responsibility is the human is the terminating case for one's own philosophical solipsistic and autoproctological recursion.

A computer must stop looking up its own ass. But we Made Progressives must <i>never</i> stop looking up our own asses, because only in the safe confines of autoencephaloproctology can we be sure that nothing can ever disturb our complacent, smug and entirely self-referential Weltanschaaung.

It is only up a Prog's ass that reality can be ignored.

That is why I so fear the advent of the LogiTrux; while I was kidnapped by Milton and Bill and forced to listen to the multiplication table, which was traumatizing, let me tell you, nearly as traumatizing as the time that someone said that Ronald Reagan won the Cold War without firing a shot, which caused exophthalmia and rosacea, I overheard them talking about the LogiTrux.

Which will go about the neighborhoods of Progressives and shout what they consider to be true: "You cannot spend more than you earn." "Science doesn't give a shit about your tender feelings," and most damaging of all, "You are not the center of the universe." At that thought I assumed a fetal position thought impossible for someone of my size.

Since I have proven that Progressives are the constant timeline on which the very <i>concept</i> of the universe is depended, that is at best heretical. And all heretics must be burned at the stake.

How lucky for me that I have 40 or so in the back yard.

Your devoted servant,
Theocritus, the Ontological and Teleological Impaler