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Originally Posted by Stephen Maturin
Another day, another example of peacegirl ravaging the Authentic Text for her own craven purposes. That's ... unsurprising.
I was saddened to read of Miss Flo's loss.
#ripAdolph
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Thank you, dear. Flo isn't quite over it yet.
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On the other hand, I am awash in anticipation over the prospect of seeing what wonders lie beyond the door marked "My Penis is Like a Phallic Symbol," one of many original Authentic Text statements that fell victim to peacegirl's depredations.
#OneWangToRuleThemAll
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<Cue Twilight Zone theme music.>
There is a door marked “My Penis Is Like a Phallic Symbol.” You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension - a dimension of sound, a dimension of (efferent) sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and screens of undeniable substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into the #TrueStewardship Zone.</music>
*Flo rattles keys, unlocks door. It creaks open.*
Boys, Flo has often pondered how future Lessansologists will likely be mystified by the messiah’s preoccupation with sex organs — particularly his insistence that in the Golden Age coming soon in 1975, boys and goils will fall in love with each other’s sex organs and hitch up for life. (I can assure you boys that Flo did not “fall in love” with those ghastly parts dangling from between the legs of her three ex-husbands.)
At first glance this idea seems retarded, and peacegirl has always maintained that it must be considered in a wider context. But it is she herself who purged the text of that very context! Sad!
It was when Flo realized this, that she had her “Ah-hah!” moment, leaping to her feet screeching, “Eureka! I have it!” Flo spilled her whiskey, and little Adolf — well, you already know what happened with Adolf. No use beating a dead horse, or even a dead Manchester terrier.
They key to understanding lies in the phrase that peacegirl ignorantly expurgated: “My penis is like a phallic symbol.”
My penis is like a phallic symbol.
Just let that phrase trip off your tongue. Savor it. Close your efferent eyes and — if you’re an I, G, or E-Homo — go ahead and even
taste it (taste still being a sense organ).
Now the concept of
a penis as a phallic symbol — a penis being a symbol of itself; an ur-penis — must be united (so to speak) with a
juicy cunt. Not just a
cunt, mind you — a
juicy cunt; a precious,
precious cunt.
Are we all on the same page, boys? Now, patiently, step by step — post by post — Flo will will conduct you on this safari into the boundless wilderness of the imagination, and when we return home, you will be in possession of a set of undeniable mathematical truths, relations that do not need your consent to be true, but merely your affirmation of understanding. These truths do not need your consent to be true, any more than two plus two needs your consent to be four, or ChuckF needs your consent to be the True Steward of the Authentic Text.
We shall find, though, that the Authentic Text — unlike the bowdlerized, mutilated Corrupted Text — can only be understood as a
radically extended metaphor, in which surface statements are but a thin, brittle carapace concealing chthonic depths — depths wherein bubbles and stews the Germinal Substance of Myth and Meaning.
Won’t you join me on this journey, boys?
More later. Now it’s time for my whiskey.