Subject: [Fwd: blablabla]
From: [email-masked]
To: [email-masked]
Date: Tue, 9 Sep 2003 13:38:03 +0200 (CEST)

------------------------- Oorspronkelijk bericht -------------------------
Onderwerp: [Fwd: blablabla]
Van:       [email-masked]
Datum:     Tue, 9 september, 2003 11:14 am
Aan:       [email-masked]
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bla bla bla blablbalblablblabla

And the pink balls flew high up like the noses of hippopotami, bathing
sweetly in the soupy river of the Liliputaminnutu River.

The clouds went berserk as they saw this absurd reality becoming not what
they had expected it to become, but instead turning slowly in a dreamy
substance, as if mixed together in a chemical testtube. But they didn't
linger in their beds longer, for the time had come for them to disappear
and watch out not to miss a single step in the direction of the electric
flow.

However, this was not the end, and, like in any good soap opera, things
flew outside, through the windows, the doors and the balconies and slowly
proceede d to take their places in the house of court. But why were they
on trial? Yes why? This question has often been asked, by lesser
philosophers as well as higher architects. Yet, no one has till now come
up with a verifiable answer, and answer that would satisfy all happy
peace-loving children as well as put the position of curent politicians
into a vaguer light. But now: we wonder, has all of this come to any
significant effect, any conclusion that is worth the its slightest
mention? From where, I ask all of you, have the bedroom mixers evaporated,
and how, I repeat, is it possible that, despite the boredom of everyday
life, there are yet parts of the sky that revolve sheepishly around my
cereal-dish, squeaking and blending over each other like in an
old-fashioned Russian novel? Or perhaps, more likely so than not, it's all
inside the heads of those perverted psychopats, who, having stayed up
awake all night, lie curiously wondering, staring at the chimney birds and
little insects, why oh why hasn't it ever occurred to them that the planet
was overpopulated?

Well, I'm not, perhaps, as much perplexed as I am amazed by what I see as
the result of an honorary egocentrism, this bland action inherited from
children of an unknown age and personality.

Then, it is this, this and nothing else, that is responsible for all the
cultural and historical praise, that has so relentlessly dominated
throughout this intire essay.

Yurii Khomskii