David Icke is most unfortunately correct; the Royal family are a bunch of giant reptile creatures. In fact most of the people in England are horrible, cold-blooded, reptile things, seeking to dominate the world as the British Empire had once before.

But worry not, long ago five clever botanists stumbled upon the only weakness of these giant, alien reptiles. They found that fried bread and tea, administered at least once every few days to any sentient being, completely depresses any urge to colonize or become an imperialistic superpower. To be perfectly honest they were actually looking for something to make anyone give a damn about botany, but due to the explosive nature of this reptile situation, they were forced to keep the discovery a secret. They masqueraded the event as the invention of a new kind of pete moss.

I must say the concoction works quite well, as I have completely failed to conquer or persuade a single member of the opposite sex since my return. I can think of no other possible explanation.

Last Sunday, being in the land of Great Britain (in and around Windlesham, to be precise) I was unable to procure a hotdog for my weekly period of remuneration. No one told me Great Britain was that land that hotdogs forgot, or perhaps just passed over entirely. As such my father and I found ourselves at an industrial-sized rest stop, full of Wotsits, Brown Sauce*, but no hotdogs or hotdog buns. It was around midnight, and the only feasible option seemed to be pre-packaged sandwiches. I quickly consulted my pineal gland for guidance, but after a few moments of intense concentration the only thing I had managed to produce was an offensive smell. I was about to give up and admit my transgression against nothing really in particular (as I don’t believe anything that I read) when Eris revealed herself in the reflection of Paper Napkin Dispenser.

“Verily,” she said, “a BLT always does as well as a hotdog.”

A BLT, I thought, how the hell does that follow? Eris gave me a long, disappointed look from the depths of the metallic dispenser.

“Oh, right,” I said aloud, “sorry…”

And so she disappeared and I munched, and it was good, though a bit dry.

At the moment I have some catching up to do with my schoolwork, so I am unsure whether or not I will be able to make more substantial contributions in the near future. I will say that the funding for the Discordian feast has evaporated (as the gift card I was relying on is not accepted by any of the local IGAs) though some kind of event to commemorate the life and death of Sir Pope Robert Anton Wilson Esq. will most assuredly take place. There will be more definite plans after I meet with my cohorts on Friday for our third hotdog…partaking…of…uhm…yeah.

Fnord, and nuke the incoherent.

*These actually exist. Wotsits are a kind of Cheeto thing, I am unsure about the Brown Sauce, Heinz makes it.