User:Un-Cigaro Cubano/Obliquosphere

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“The Oblique Fust of Holohan walked up and down constantly like an Irish Revival knight in a picture postcard, of course on Sunday when Kearney Himself and his romantic ideals lifted in the eyebrow of sweat like a Nationalist waning and threadbeare artiste, falling, dropping, like the power of a much younger man employed to a Constabulary office of once high thus the Church of Santificant whispers among the courted realms of power and driletic yet verbose cantralto of Bartirier, thus a divine Borgia or Lucrezia or Dinorah and a great pitiful lemonsalted grass knoll which I lay under; oy, the Carentell.”
~ James Joyce on The Fusted Skythe of Obliquosphere

Knights errant of olden days once found solace in an ancient tale gleaned from centuries of experiences with the superparamephisticonormal. They spoke of an entity of such great power it rivaled the golden vane of Cratus the Many-Eyed. Circular in its obfuscent nature, it reflected the light of a million years, projected the future of a million years to come, and took into its great maw the soul of he who stared upon it. The Prophesy of Holohan states that the Obliquosphere was created with Vustendius' contrarotation of a fusted paramoure and the derived essence of a divinely integrated Hegelian dwith. As such, the Obliquosphere generates massive amounts of Latific radiation and spawns such legacies as the Central Spire of Golgomath-Uruk-Bay, the Pyramidal Basin of Ngo Diep Singh, and every manifestation of Kreplaagh, He Who Consumes the Young Children That Shall Not Be Named. All manner of specialists have analyzed the complex combination of mythology, philosophy, fustology, and phrenology that contribute to the Obliquospherian Mystique. For millenia they have never been able to show a concrete link between the existence of this Grand Artifact and any other event in known history.

Fusted skythe mimique

A fusted skythe mimique, practicing the insignations of cortinence, one of the clearest resultant vektorz of obliquospherian principalities.

Paramouric Skythes

The Obliquosphere's main constituent, a Paramouric Skythe is a nonentity comprised of undulations of the space-time distendium crystallizing in a freudian matrix of hegelian quantum phase variation. It begins to constitute the Obliquity when crushed and minced and combined with a lemon sorbet.

The Bloom of Grekshire

The Bloom of Grekshire is a story encompassing the criticism of Morbourgian Fust, a fine layer of chrome which develops in the canal of one's ear after rough sex or bathing. The Bloom of Grekshire was the first traced as a woman, Kat Thriles Copenhagen, who had intercourse with an Obliquosphere on June 4, 1644 before the Invasion of Reinsfelt, which left five crippled and one unhappy.

Before she left, she closed the door; she packed a few items, and dwindled down the bleachedstreet of Brownstone Town, where hopscotch girls with ribbons and bows flattered young boys with their red cheeks and dancing. Above all else, she raced to meet her grandfather, to display the sparkling eyes of restitution (these days, she hadn’t seen him often), and proclaim that she loved him so sweetly, so sincerely. It was the time of autumn.

Aye, the autumnal bloom was at hand. Fleurs burst open with radiant psychotrauma, befiddling the merchants and shopkeepers in a shower of pecunious filamentary exolutions. The pollen drifted into the nye, and attacked the yonder with a flying presence of Kreplaaaagh, and the Children Who Shall Not Be Named rained from the sky, afire like that which is touched by the Obliquosphere.

As the people of Grekshire perished under this toxic rain of scat, and from blunt trauma injuries sustained by being struck in the cranium by Children Who Shall Not Be Named that fell from heights recorded as high as three hundred stades (High indeed), the Non-Appelated Children of Moldovieus imbedded in the skulls and struck the harps, gilded the oxen and lay with their wives to expand their minds with opiates of sardonic creative narcissistic self-burginations. Kat Thriles Copenhagen unwittingly killed her grandfather, whose rustic incantations she did love so dearly to smell, when the Grekshirians stampeded under the rain of Bloom and destroyed his thorax under the weight of their unholy divinations.

The young red-cheeked boys who did dance so well were flayed to the bone and their dripping bodies were placed at the gilded throne of Karak-Dun as the Evermancer did watch from on high. Such was a fitting revenge, as their uproarious vulgar dances did displease the Master Impellor.

As the pressure generated by the weight of the inverse of the total mass of these Children approached the Criticality Vustendulation Index (CVI) the surviving townsfolk enacted the holy and sacred rite of the Festival of Tilsirian Trancepresso, in an effort to ward off the Gods' obliquity. Sadly, this failed, and all blinked out of netherexistence. The end. Fucker.

Though the tale of the Grekshirian Bloom is noble indeed, it lacks any inclusion of the essential sorbet ingredients and fails to mention the need to pulverize the fustubules in the presence of 99.9978% purity dwith. Therefore, it lacks any relevance save to those who know the relevance that it lacks.

The Choperis

143 Crestmore St.,

Hopkin’s Village Town East

The Bakers’ House

Brownstone Town

Grekshire, Hurston

Ovulation of the Trancepresso in Ancient Cultures


Moldovieus, Charoth, & Vustendius performing the Tilsian Trancepresso Ceremony (TTC) 'neath yonder luna/sol.

Where the glaciers once caked the olde worlde in firth and coltends, ancient Humarinths turned to the sacred protection of their deity Tilsicus, bringer of Trancepresso. This Ancient Culture of Cytokinetic Postmodernists founded a belief in the divinity of the Holy Duality enmeshed in the accession of a Hegelian Dwith into Paramouric Skythedom as it fusts itself through the moores into the very heart of the Obliquosphere. The ceremony for worshipping the Tilsian Trancepresso involves dancing about the wolverine pen while clutching a penne's liver and chewing on the blackened remains of the sporopollenin that coated Grekshire during that awful Vustendian bloom.

The trancepresso ceremony, when performed correctly, is believed to grant the performer access to the wonderful sight that is given to he who stares upon the ilken obliquity of the cortex of the inner core of the outer mandible of the siluvian accessor port on the dorsoventricularpenthol side of the northernmost landmass on the greatest continental plate on the soaring right wing of the antidilurian spiral in the gentry of the superhelix surrounding the cuticle of the correlative superiority that is the Tilsian Trancpressican Obliquosphere.

It consists of the brewing of several oceans' worth of high-quality Venusian Espresso beans, and the infusion of them into the subconsciousness, by which the altered state of reality is achieved. The performer will see a large gilden gatekey with twenty-four legs and a brazen basular helm. He will then march into Belgoprussia at the head of his hordes of Sandran armies to the rescue of a Gastriculan prince's court jester. The gester will grant the performer a sacred card and allow him access to a holy card reader. The performer, henceforth known as Grenor, will swipe the card three times, getting a bad read on the first two. Frustrated, Grenol will destroy the machine and imprint it into his arm.

Then the obliquosphere will appear, and grant Grenor an audience. Grenor will desire to speak upon the Obliquity. He will attempt to encase his fustules in crystalline dwythe, but the obliquosphere will disintegrate him into a burning gondi ember and recycle his cranst into the obsidian skies of Grekshire, under the Moores of Karak-dun who claim to know all about Colombianic Kafe.

Such is obliquosphere.

The Historical Consciousness of the Obliquosphere

Or, More Appropriately, "A Giant Load Of Bucolic Horse Shit"

Behold it thus: In 753 B.C., when the Mormons attacked the Saracens and the Teutons rolled in the bales of hay located in a young fluorishing and virginal Gaul, a man arose in the West. He despised those to the East, North, and South, and plotted to destroy them all to give rise to his kingdom of Mennonemenninites.

He failed. As he put on his armor and began incantations to the Oblique One, a fust rented through his armor and tore through his heart like a hungry pirate rips through three pounds of beef jerky. The Man, known to only a few as Cor, dropped to his knees, and, surprised to know that he would soon have a very untimely end before he could ever realise his hateful dream, uttered "What a fucking pile of horse shit."
His beautiful wife, who was helping to arm him and dress him, and who was injured when a piece of Cor's spine ricocheted into her eye and rendered her the first female pirate, remembered his last words for ever, and rode into battle with them as a banner.
All of her enemies were so surprised to see a female leading the charge of a vast army that they rolled over laughing. This gave her troops in the flanks time to run up and cut the throat of every last enemy man, woman, boy, girl, dog, goat, and all the wheels off their carts, just to be safe.
The woman's name was Roma. She gave birth to two sons, Romulus and Remus, one of whom became a bucolic alcoholic and spent his days wandering the earth in search of boobs and beer, and the other of whom converted to Obliquotholicism and led the forefrunt of the move to divine Obliquity as he founded a small obscure empire in Italy that never had a noticeable effect on the rest of the world, and was never even bothered by the rampaging Vandals, who preferred instead to sack Manchuria and fill the world with fake Chinese Food recipes so that never again would the sagacious anime culture ever be understood.

However, the smallest historical coincidences can have the largest consequences. Romulus, who founded this empire and then flew into space to form the Romulan Empire (he was quite the vain one) had a wife, Jorda, who gave birth to a man who married and gave birth to a girl who gave birth to a wolf who gave birth to the rest of Rome and suckled it at its teats before allowing Rome to give birth to an Emperor named Aurelius that then gave birth to Tijs. Small fucking world indeed.

The Letter of Evidence before the War of Marburgh-Turtons


The Conqueror Kreplaagh Upon the Nye Eve of Cortinence Consumpsing Vustendius.

A letter was written to the King of Marburgh to console the Turtons in early-day Venice before the War of Prides (1203-1267). The title of the piece was "art" and it spoke of the transcendent mephistophical methods employed by its author, Juez A-Sackson Brestle, a native protothinker of Juarez, its capitol.

Unfortunately, "art" never averted the terrible War, and Kreplaaagh swept down from the hills and incinerated the wonderful Enlightened City. The poem survived, written on the inflammable hide of the Omni-Deer in 1744. It evidenced profusely in the Courts.


Abstract fountains of coin,
Bewildered young men floundering for answers,
The starving, the famished, the hungry, and the somewhat foodwanting,
those who take the horsetails
and fashion ornate
seeking importance but never earning such,
seeking fame but never so beloved,
seeking the eternal inaccessible private University,
One wonders not why you struggle so.
You claim to know art, critic? You, with your massive
Collection of bespotted wood?
Art is not a comprehensive jumble of profiteering!
You vile knave! How dare you be so presuming!
What know you of ART?
Tell unto me,
who inscribed the laws of art with signatures
of harmonic agreement?
Who crafted the great argument toward colorwheels and
splattered emotion on a canvas?
I did, you did, they did. All for myself, yourself, themselves, omniselves.
As if you could have even guessed what significance your blind graspings would never reach!
Art is as selfish as it is internal.
It is the eternal quest for self-recognition in an unfamiliar and ultimately unrewarding world that cares not for
the Validity of Intentions, only for the Embrace of Poor Judgement.
Amen, you fickle daemonic Art Gods. A-fucking-men.

Connection of this poem to the Obliquosphere: UNKNOWN.

Derived validity: CLASS-A LEVEL-5 RELEVANCE.


The Iconoclaste and his Retinue

It was the year of our lord, or rather, 1973 years after the year of our lord, and Joan "Charlie" Nolan Criche was still a child. Where Goliad once stood lay a wasteland of capitalistic frenzy, the barren land occasionally broken by the sad outline of a flagging amusement park or a dingy Motel. Sparse sprinklings of brush lay around the broken desert, like the pathetic attempts of a bald man to regrow his hair with one of those crazy tonics.

Julio Rodriquez y Fuego IV smoked a cigarette with the mannerisms of a nicotine-starved madman. The tobacco could not enter his lungs fast enough as he gulped down the fumes. The last few years had not been kind to Julio. With his left hand, he undid the restraint upon his hip holster and palmed the handle of his Rosetta 1937 Model A "Keg o' Whoopass" revolver, feeling the time-worn grip made from sheep skull. Today would be ugly indeed.

A lone clarinetist struck up a tune inside the window of a motel, the sultry notes cloying on the breeze to sting his ears. Julio fired, and the man dropped, his clarinetting silenced forever.

Four feet away, a pianist materialised in the street and spontaneously broke out in ragtime. "My god..." breathed Julio, as his Rosetta barked again and the pianist's head burst like a ripe tomato, splattering the ground and his white piano keys in a wave of broken dreams.

Next, a crazed trumpeter assaulted the world with crazy jazz, riffing through lightning fast solos with his three-fingered monstrosity, spraying the air and the buildings like a drive-by gangster with a Chicago Typewriter. Musical bullets ricocheted around Julio as his own bullet left the barrel of Rosetta. It entered the bell of the trumpeter's vile instrument, and made its way through the cacophony of coiled tubes and into the musician's throat, ending his reign of terror.

Drums assaulted Julio next, accompanied by a wave of iPod-wearing sycophants dripping truculence from their mass-produced vocalization nodules. These fools, dressed all in black, gyrated vulgarly, and Rosetta spoke again. A series of indignant squeals put the drummer down for good, took off the iPodders' arms and legs and split not a few in two. Their black forms evaporated into the desert and Julio was again at peace.

A vision then came upon the crouched gunman. A lone woman dressed in veils of secrecy spoke treasonous flattery from her iced-mocha lips, enveloping Julio in a dale of cunning chakra. He resisted but the voices came faster and harder. The sounds, O, the illustrious sounds! They tore at his flesh and sundered his skin from his bones, destroying his heart and filling his mind with the poison of a thousand doubts.

Where am I
What am I here for?
Why was I created
Fie, you dog! I am not your toy!

Cyclic terror. Unabashed presumptuence. Untangled webs of indulgence. Lies.

The painter scraped his brush on the canvas and drew lines so horrid they never left Julio's eyes.

The plumber broke the toilet and let the foeces of a thousand deaths drench the world in the true filth of us all.

In time, the sun grew dim and the moon grew a face, laughing with unsure intent each night as it plotted its revenge upon the world that for too long had failed to heed its call.

The hunter gathered.

Then the land buckled and swallowed in upon itself, and Julio, the Musicians, the Painter, the Voice, and the visage of the harpy-woman were no more.


A gaggle of brave men took up the task of Julio and travelled the land, executing on the spot the vile Musicians that defied the laws of Obliquity with their summonings of the Carentell. The beaches and forests soon ceased ringing with such demonic noises, and musicians of later latifications' years would refer to this period as "the day the music died." When the Musician-Fuegoerian Treaty was signed in 1982 YOTL *Year Of The Lord* only then could the young men sit around the tables of America, sharing the Sacred Pies of Fraternity that they consumed every year on "the day the music died" to reaffirm their committments to peace, lest the musicians rise again to slaughter the innocents, and therefore lest further the Gunmen rise up to slaughter the Musicians. Julio was the Iconoclaste, and decimated the nonbelievers, in the spirit of Kreplaagh and Moldoveius.

It was the end of the best of times, and the epic beginnering of the worst of times for the Worlde.

The Criticisms

“I refuse to accept this mass-dilusion! Divine Obliquity is a subject of speculation and carries no weight! I will not be held down by the People and told what to know! I disbelieve! Do you hear me, Moldovieus? Do my acrid barbs sting your ears, Charoth? Fie, accept this torture as your Judgement! Never come to me with your prophetics again, you Dogs! Get the hence from my sight! I disbelieve! I disbelieve!.”
~ Vustendius on The Articles of Contradiction
“FUCK Vustendius. I am truly Oblique.”
~ Kreplaaagh on The Execution of the Heretic Vustendius by Intestinal Osmosis and Radial Immersion

A Cicadian Transliteration


Winging away, post-grapping. The Dragortic one makes it all look easy. In Dawg-town.

With the augment of the obliquoshpere, new realms of logic began to appear.

POST-MODERNISM: The idea that we all live post-modernistically, hence, after the modern times, hence, the future

Post-Post Modernism: We all live projected even further past the modern; MORE FUTURE

Other nonsensicalitors arose in that land of Stague, the horribly ensheathed dragortic who wings on high, or at least, who did find delight in the sullied atrophies of clear-planed mites that float in the stratosphere until the Obliquosphere called him home to that great winging ground in the sky. He winged in the ground and grounded his wings in ecstasy, and as Stague retreated into Obliquity, his realm opened up to the nonsensicalitors. They grapped.

The War of Prides then broke out in Stague's land. The Post-Modernists took up arms and crippled three Post-Post-Modernists in a legendary argument over the application of Freudian principalities to the overlooming contrition of Schopenhaerian-Hegelian-Kantian Reductionism of Fractal Dwythe. The Post-Post-Modernists flung stones with box-framed spectacles and drew oil paintings of diverse inner city happenings, which crippled two Post-Modernists and left Scarthicus of Krepping-Lambardier supremely unhappy with the state of the fermentation of his Pinot Grigio crop. He, too, grapped.

With these grappings having reached completion, Stague exploded. His entrails became "rain" and periodically fall upon the Nonbelievers.

Cicadians? Mitochondrial haste, indeed! Seventeen Cicadians attempted the Corinthian Fustulation with a boan of fete cunning. They cried out in their native francophonical tongue, "le c'est! c'est le c'est!" but all was for naught. They were crushed under Vustendius' boot as Moldovieus and Charoth, whom at this time were his hedonistic pleasure-seeking pseudo-companions, before their separation over Fundamental Belvederes, laughed at their plight. The Circadian movement has never quite fully recovered from this horrible besmirchment of their Core Values and Principles.

Fuck the Cicadians.

“The Cicadians basically walk around Araby like they own the place, but what they don't know is that secretly, they have all stuffed their mouths full of my giant cock. Seriously, it takes the whole Cicadian movement to suck me off. I'm that huge. I'm like a sperm factory. God damn Cicadians ruining my street cred. How am I gonna sell my Juice and my Dweez-G in da hood with these punk fools all steppin like dey know the Divine Obliquity. I'll fuck em all in the ass. Fuck them, I say. Damn Cicadians...bunch of dwythes, if you ask me. Anyway, now that i'm done gangsta-ing, let's talk about some bullshit ancient Irish holiday that some people who aren't even Irish (though their family questionably were divine gate guarders) think I have subtly included as significant symbols in my writing...though I haven't.”
~ James Joyce on Dubliners

Joe "Charlie" Nolan Criche stumbled out of a bar, fell on boxes of spilled liquor, and landed on his chin (thus scarring it indefinitely), and tiptoed top-heavy for the rest of the block to his apartment, up the stairs, into his room, onto his couch in front of the mint glow of the extended television program, with thawing ice cream and a stray fly to accompany him to sleep. All of his early days encumbered with lost time, have accumulated to this point (realizing that all points on this coordinate plane have brought him to this point, to this place), for him to just move this distance, to move from this origin, until he reaches a sad ending at a sad coordinate, far from the lost days of childhood. Yes, far from these dream-induced realities. He stubbed his toe on the way in on the torn part of his carpet (patched by the rug), yet could not find the energy to aid himself, or to care to aid himself.

Miserable, as he sat there bleeding, next to the ice cream, with a full bladder, though too drunk and tired to wake up and too lazy to turn off the television set even though it bothered him, he began to think. But he heard a very annoying noise, coming from somewhere outside his half-opened window (even though, again, he was too lazy to do anything about it). “What the hell is that crap?”

He couldn’t understand how something that loud could exist. There, with a pillow over his ear and the other ear buried in the couch, he began to dream of future (unknowing the future is a product of the presence), and felt idly for the patience to endure the screaming operculation of an insect outside his window, which created anger and apprehension from within his already exasperated self.

But the insect, a cicada, had finally reached the end of its seventeen year burrow, had considered it time to come out from its underground world to annoy the world above ground with its long-range hiss. Wake up, there Charlie, you drunk bastard! Wake up!

The insect tormented Charlie, who had just tipped those alcoholic beverages with the prime knowledge of alcohol’s easy affect, as the cicada pumped its vocal resonation into his cracked open window, hinting: hey Charlie, we’re doing something to get you up, you drunk bastard. We’re trying to wake you up. Get up! Charlie arose, dizzy (due to the quick rise), to find the bug that was annoying him so much. It stopped its whining annoyance. Charlie stumbled, fell down, landed on the hard floor and bumped his head on the couch. Something landed on his chest. “Get up, you. I’m tired of this. Now, arise good soldier and march!” A cicada (newly erected from seventeen underground years: sagacious, wise, deliberate), had commanded Charlie. He must obey. He got up and cleaned himself off, walked into his room and put on some nice clothes, got a ride, an application, an interview, a haircut, some fresh air, and a job. The next day, he would do something. Thank you, Mr. Cicada. Thank you nature, alarm clock you. If only I had a mental cicada to piss me off. “You do,” said the cicada. Then it molted and flew away.

The Reaction

Charlie wrote a poem in which he described the Cicada's molting and other annoyances and titled it "Fucking Wretched Bitch." It was published by a Darsistus, or a non-fusted skythe which had carried the Dwist of bloom for many years.

I looked into her eyes one last time
The fragrance of her skin, that subtle reeking fragrance
Steamed from her skin like stagnant roach steam.
Fucking wretched bitch
Decapitated that shit and
Fucked a hole through her
Like a drill bit through fucking drywall.
This bitch is life.

The Sulphreous Fye

Sulphreous Fye

The fabled Sulphreous Fye, extending from its mephistic lair in Moldovieus' left eyesocket, where later dwelt the access codes for the Carnivorous Dwelling Beast of Shen.

“The Sulphreous Fye, let me say if I will, my dear ones, is a great and wonderous being. It exists Possibly as the only way to deinstate the oblique fust of dwythic narcisissm from its rattling chains. Difficoult. Quite difficoult. Diffi - c - ou - lt.”
~ Moldovieus on His odd little eyesocket-dwelling companion

The Fye is the great Abbreviator for all known Events. It bridges the gap between Duality and Singularity and connects all possible meanings via its supra-presential aquatic jungle-nerve, binding causality and definining holiness, advising and counseling and when times require ordering the Extinction of the Hate-Encapsulated Nonbelievers.

Moldovieus was colonized by the Sulphreous Fye soon after his friend Vustendius was comsumpsed by the daemon Kreplaaagh; it happened thus.

After becoming Hedonists, Moldovieus and Charoth took a swim for a spot of rest in a wonderful crystal-clear river flowing righteously and overabundant with delightfully-clothe-less female Spherettes. Such a people were these that they cared not who saw them, and indeed welcomed the former Obliquitors with open arms and open legs. Laying in the river with three of the Spherettes, Moldovieus drifted into a deep slumber and turned over in the holy water. This was when the Sulphreous Fye took the opportunity to travel into his eyesocket and replace that with which he formerly viewed the world through a haze of misty gloom.

The Sulphreous Fye was that whom did disclose the Contrarotarian and Hegelic nature of the awful Bloom of Grekshire to a surprised and aback-taken Moldovieus. It is the Ultimate Alternative, indicative of sublime catharsis and unbecoming strife to such ancient men as Tijs himself, who knew the Fye as he was sniffing the Espressogen wafting up from his Divinic coppula of finely-integrated Latific Kafe.

The Fye is a poetical composer of supric thrust.

Whence last I did see her
She was dressed in a flowing lace gown
Sitting softly 'pon the vale of a glorious tuft of fungilio
She smiled
The uptake of her lashes lowered sleepily as she
Let the touch of ultimate intimacy
Surround her and caress her
My beauteous Lucrezia, she did finger
The glorious demands of the sky and cry out
A sweet and sultry defiance of the Worlde
When Borgia and Dinorah did join her
Their cares dissolved in a whirling tunnel
Of nigh-contained antigrief
They giggled as they laid hands on one another
Perhaps a display so heraldric as
The bards cannot describe it in front of their kings
Alas, dear Lucrezia! Your naked form drifts 'pon the breeze
I smell your elusive scent every time I open the refrigerator
I am reminded of you every time I clean the mud from my dog's paws
You call to me
But I am never there
So you leave me a message over the garbled phone
And ask me, in a luscious voice,
You beg me with your languorious forms
To pick up the drycleaning and a gallon of milk

Such is my love for you
~ The Sulphreous Fye on Lucrezia the Omnificient Majesty

Such is its obliquity, cloaked in firth and masked with cyclic dwythe.

The Blithe Liquorings of an Unkempt and Verouse Tuggen

It crawls through throats of cracking desert
Blowing beyond my dream
Like the whispering scathe of a minute wasp
Falling into soft-cobwebs
And in slumber I sleep
In slumber I sleep
Beyond all knowingly
Thorough its fall
And there I have wholistically found
It g r o w s
But with growing here sickens me driving where I should be
Down under cool growing capsules
Followed by me under
The corridor of nurtured
Egglike wind
With sand

It was never the Tuggen's intent to sink into the crushing demands of deep alkalides. One day he was visiting Grekshire, before another Cyclic bloom floated away to the Choperis, when a disheveled man who looked to be the reincarnation of one Carnelius Extanto Bendi II leapt off a rooftop (covered in blackened sporopollenic bloom) and delivered the Liquor unto the Tuggen. Surprised!

Tuggen liked. Liquor made very happyning thus. Super nice. Drink more? In haste time, yea! Drop unto thee, thy spralding drawers, and drop unto me, for a midnight romp nevermore.

When the Tuggen awoke he thought his head was become Death, the Destroyer of Worldes, but the reincarnated Carnelius Extanto Bendi II had merely introduced the Tuggen's head to the glorious leer of Guinness Extra Stout in the presence of combusting Espressogen as a bishop of Obliquotholicism looked on and regulated the process through the Green Storing Bible of Yon Ulger-thwathe Dren Vergast, version 2.0.1.Z.

Where was the Tuggen?

In Liquoria, where all good things did flow like water. Holy Water. Dipped in chocolate and wrapped thrice in Little Ground-up Bits of Children.

In a Liquoric frenzy it was the Tuggen that did disinterr the Iconoclaste and cast his entraltic bones upon his followers. And it was the descendants of the Tuggen that did view the death of Vustendius with cheers and thrillic haft. History hates the Tuggen for his foolish abandonment of Obliquity. When the Tuggen died, he did so from the cirrhic stomach acids of one Proto-Stague, who did ingest the Omni-Tuggen in a fit of pre-Winging dashern audacidic fervor.

“Shut the fuck up with your bullshit poetry or I shall nut a gutter on your tendons. ”
~ Juliar the Mindbender on The Tuggen's Eternal Stupidity as Mandated and Certified by Tijs (after his becoming a neo-priest of Obliquity, for sure, and before his descent into the Choperis due to the Obliquosphere's cortex's cranst, aye, do we all mourn and simultaneously celebrate the demise of Tijs for his explorating and his daring to go into the face of Obliquity and fear not the consequences of failing certification as a fusted paramouric skythe of dwythic and grestian nature

The epic beginnerings of Moldovieus, Charoth, and Vustendius, waning in yore, under the gibbiterous moon, as fulminations of grekshire's awful bloom did stab out into the darkling sky like a poet's last breath on the shore of Avonshirevilleham, where Kreplaagh lost and subsequently regrew his right arm, and all of the children dare not speak of the terrible "dark closet" in Mme. Bromhilde's cottage, which is surely full of the bones of the heretics, those who disbelieved in the divine obliquity, which portentiously came to include the cortex villification of the anti-dwythe Vustendius himself, who, along with his former companions Moldovieus and Charoth, will be discussed forthwith and post haste after a long afternoon's walk on the beach, aye, the beach where the Carentell did come to James Joyce and fust the shit out of his burgeoning Obliquosphere, located at none other place than the Choperis.

In the year before the Bloom of Grekshire, there were born on the same hour in the same day three sagacious interludes, whose parents, knowing the portentious correlation that the obvious translocations of their birthdates did bear upon the war-torn land of Prides, named them in the Religion's code; Alpha Bonabo, Beta Bonabo, and Steen.
The young men were inseparable. They schooled together at the Academy in Nice, France, and did take the Wine under the linseed tree and stare upon the pretty red-cheeked girls in their harvest dresses, who baled their hay and winked flirtatiously at the sagacities, ay, these men, who believed fiercely in the path to Divine Obliquity, refused the obfuscent advances of the Francettes and swore a life of celibacy in their pursuit to Translocate their Hegelian Dwythe and gain the status of Fusted Paramoure, so that their molding process could begin. Yes, they did desire that Bioligical Tail full of Thuave-7.
Years passed, and as they trained and studied at the Academy of Freudian Obliquology, they shed their naivete and grew strong in the protectious sanctitude of nevermore. 'Pon their graduation, they did shed their old names, and take on the monnikers of the ancient Trancepresso Saints, those men who, with Tijs, did conjure the first glance upon the Cortex of the Obliquosphere by performing this sacred rite, those men who found the ocean of coffee beans and passed into legend as much as they passed into nothingness when the Obliquosphere deemed them unworthy and deatomized them with a flick of its Cranst, casting them down into Golgoth and assembling the Choperis out of thin air. If you venture to the Choperis you will hear the iconic chants of Tijs, who despite deatomization, remains fully ensconced in Paramouric principles, and is nearly fusted himself.
Alpha Bonabo took on the Venerated Title of Sir Charoth, the Known Espressor, he who journeyed the Worlde in his search for coffee beans worthy enough to summon the Obliquity with. Beta Bonabo became known as Moldovieus the Benefactorz, he who sheltered Tijs when a man named Gondol threw a spear into his thigh, he who subsequently found Gondol and flayed the skin from his bones and made a pretty shirt out of it, he who attacked the Bears of Prides with the spear he pulled from Tijs' thigh, and who drove these beasts from his homeland and saved the children. Steen originally wished to be known as Gulio, but the Obliquopope deemed this name a Obliquoheresy, as Gulio had once punched Tijs when Tijs the Holy refused to cover his bar tab, as Gulio had imbibed a lot of Guinness that night and really hadn't known where it had come from (some believe the lecherous Kreplaaghian Children of Bodom dropped the Guinness at Gulio's feet, but this theory remains unproven as it is unclear whether Gulio drank it with his toes or fingers, the latter of which could surely invalidate this theory with a Cranst's flick) and thus in his confusion had lashed out at the source of his Malphigian Dissatisfaction.
This was the first in a long lign of Vustendius' malignations against the Obliquochurch, and would bear witness to his horrible betrayal of Hegel's principles of finely-integrated Coptic mesh intwined with a distilled spirit of Canaan, and his subsequent destruction at the hands of all that he had once held dear. Steen had to take his second pick, the afforementioned Vustendius, and so it was that he came to be known as Vustendius the Poetically-Waning and Philosophically-Jaded. All three swore an oath to Obliquogod, that they would defend Prides against Kreplaagh, that they would stand up for Obliquospherian principles, and that they would guard with their souls the Source of the Contrarotation, that holy Spring in Prides that extruded the Golden Vane of Theth from the earthen ground, which promised to power the Pridian's lives for millenia.
The young prophetics journeyed the land, teaching the laymen the intensely complex Obliquospherian principles and converting the Christinators' friars into true believers of the Divine Contrarotation that would surely follow a justly-led obliquolife at its obliquodeath. It was in these times that Kreplaagh and Stague agreed to an indeterminately-long sabbatical from assaulting the Shires and the Choperis. These two foul initiators of the tuggen's blithe liquorings found favor in pursuing their own visions of Obliquity, and retired to the north for several long winters. All was not right, however. The young Vustendius had grown somewhat bitter, as his two companions Moldovieus and Charoth had not been overtly willing to share in their ritual inculcation of Guinness Extra Stout, labelling him "a derisive alcoholic," "a surly twat-mouthed douche," and, worst of all "a whiny maggot who only believes in obliquity because it gives him more shithe to whine about." Where did the root of these hostilities come from?
It was obvious to Moldovieus and Charoth that Vustendius' intentions had never placed faithship in the goodlife Oblique (at least not primary in standings) at the tip of the mast. Vustendius wanted to pursue an education in the lays' scienketics, a vulgar practice that involved mathematically constructing houses, churches, bridges, indeed all manner of infrastructure, as opposed to simply gathering the materials and waiting for the Divine Obliquity to befall them a Hegelian Fust with which to autoassemble the structure, not as mere men saw fit, but as the Overarching Oblique Plan demanded. Vustendius had for a time sought the University of Nice, and it was far from without doubt that the young red-faced girls who the trio had once spurned (and who had now grown into lovely, buxome women not at all above the act of promiscuous enticements of a young Protoordained Paramouric Skythe) factored at least partway into Vustendius' eventual decisions to depart from his quest.
While it was common for those who had committed to a life of Obliquity to renounce their vows (this life was difficult indeed, as it required a large tolerance for caffeine, alcohol, and a fair amount of skill at romantic encounters involving two or more very attractive femalospheres) and leave their host monasteries to return to lay life (approximately four in ten Protoordained Paramouric Skythes did not have what it took, and another two in ten perished from liver failure after overdosing during the trancepresso summoning, especially in modern times, when the Church deigned it permissible to merge the Trancepresso summoning with a traditional Guinness Keg Trek (to heighten or dull the senses, depending on who you were talking to) as early as 1722), not a few had expected Vustendius to make a fine Apologetic, perhaps even an Agitator of the Anti-Stemetic Burginations. It was a surprise to many, save Moldovieus and Charoth, that Vustendius thus gave up this life and left for the university.
However it was expected by nobody that the wandering Yassidic Hasem Yashim Yousef Aboudehyeh IV had established a fraternity house at the University of Nice, and it was further unexpected that in this house, he led a quest to corrupt young minds and create an Army of Darkness, or at least an Army of That Time Near Dusk When It's Still Technically Light Outside, But You Can't Quite See Anything Meaningful, Or Accurately Deduce the Correct Color of Anything Because All the Shadows Muddle Together Because the Sun Decides To Be A Lazy Vaginal Wart and Set, But Not At All Suddenly, Rather Taking the Crappy Path of Slow Descent, Bathing Us All In Waves of Effemininity As We Wait For It To Go Down So That Now It Is Finally Dark and We Can All Go Sneak Out In Our Parents' Celicas To Make Out In the Park and Smoke Those Shitty Imported European Cigarettes With Hard To Pronounce Names and No Filters, That You Have To Pay Like $20.00 Per Pack For Because Some Douchebags Are Pretentious, and It Is Those Same Pretentious Douchebags That Create The Overwhelming Majority Of The Demand For Those Damned Euro-cigs (Ever Wonder Why They Call Them "Fags?") and Thus Set The Fucking Price, Which Is Way Too Fucking Expensive, Yet You Buy Them and Smoke Them With a Limp Wrist Anyway Because You're Afraid of Not Fitting In, As You Ram Your Tongue Down Your Fat Acne-Befallen Girlfriend's Throat and Try To Cop A Feel Or Maybe Get Lucky Tonight (Finally) but Again She Denies You Because Your Life Is Crap and You Think Your LiveJournal Entries, If Ever Published, Would Become A Best Seller and Rocket You To International Stardom, Though They Won't, Because You're a Moron Who Pays Too Much for Cigarettes and Sneaks Out in a Fucking Celica, you Disgusting Dyed-black-hair Whining Douche, out of the recruits at his Frat House Of Evil.
It was in room 429 that Vustendius made his hovel in this frat house, and predictably soon, he dropped all of his Dwythic intentions and fell under the cult teachings of Hasem Yashim Yousef Aboudeheyh IV and renounced Divine Obliquity in its entirety. Some suspect that during this time, Vustendius actually converted to FSMism, but if he did, why didn't he ever dress like a pirate, you unmitigated asshats?
Elsewhere in the world, Moldovieus and Charoth made the hideous mistake of stumbling into a QuickSand Time Continuum (QSTC) and accidentally locking themselves in stasis for twelve years.
Twelve hideous years. Vustendius overthrew the Yassidic and tore his eyes out with a soldering iron, after which he executed the once-leader by hoisting his broken body on a plank and catapulting it into the Hotel California, a known gathering ground for all things unsavory, where the Yassidic met his terrible ends at the points of many many Steely Knives, as onlookers chanted "They Just Can't Kill The Beast" (an obvious euphemism for Aboudehyeh's Yassidic upbringing, during which he wasn't allowed to eat beasts, only meat and potatoes and occasionally some strong ale), a chant to which the Steely-Knived ones replied to and disproved by carving the Yassidic priest up like a Turkey at a Thanksgiving Dinner in the house of a family whose genetic pool is invaded by alleles that code for 1000-lb Gross Obesity, all the members of which have not eaten for about an hour and are thus very very VERY hungry (or, according to Art, "somewhat foodwanting").
Vustendius now led a dark charge against the very foundations of Obliquity, determined to knock the Overarching Plan to the ground and besunder it with dales from twixt the boan of fete cunning. Two unlikely heroes stepped up to save Obliquity and defeat Vustendius. With Moldovieus and Charoth in stasis (thanks to those fucking Protoss Arbiters OMG!!!11) their former enemies, Stague and Kreplaagh, who actually worshipped in the same Obliquotholic Church that the three young prophetics did as young gittlings, and who called a truce every Thursday to facilitate this, grew quite angry. They were sick of Vustendius' blasphemic utterances, sick of his denial of the possibility of Divine Contrarotation, sick of his claims that the Dwythe of Marbourgian Skythe was simply "made up in my mom's fucking basement one saturday night when we were all drunk as hell" and thusly after much debate with a large dandruff-ridden Canaanite who loved nothing more than being on the debate team and missing every other day of school due to a "mystery illness" (hypochondria) they declared war on Vustendius.

The Clash of Ideologies on the Blood-Drenched Fields of Nice

The armies clashed in a battleground so huge that Frenchmen could not fit their egos into it. Blood was spilled by the hectare, and actually made pretty good fertilizer, so that a crop of red rosetholomews still grows every year to commemorate the bravery of those that died there. The clash was in Nice. The first casualties were those lovely young buxome women that were formerly redcheeked girls. Kreplaagh impaled them upon a mustard tree and left them cruelly alive, until Stague consumpsed the flesh from their entraltic bones. Guns soon proved useless as the pack thrall of thrashing agitated combatants simply willed the bullets out of existence, and all drew swords because, hell, if you're gonna die, go out in something badass like a sword fight or a chainsaw juggling contest. The flash of cold steel lit the skies like lightning from the Oblique Cortex itself. Many heroes died in this battle, but nobody gives a shit about history and those textbooks are boring, so all their names are lost. In fact, we don't know if heroes died, but since this battle involved the entire male population of Europia, it can be assumed that some heroes were in fact present (though it is debatable whether their flowing hair ruffled in the wind that day, and many meteorologists describe the air patterns above Nice as "stagnant crap due to an overload of Obliquohatred").
Vustendius led his forces on a charge to Kreplaagh's flank, but his troops, who wielded hefty battle-axes and carried an automatic +2 evade bonus against "faggot nonbelievers" rended these men to limbless shreds. Kreplaagh summoned Stague's Dragortics and winged in from on high, but Vustendius directed his Surly Knaves to throw stones at the Wingers, smashing their delicate bones and turning them into a dead-mutalisk-like red mist in the air.
At this point, all looked like a tie. However, Kreplaagh had a secret weapon: Stague was a Buffoonal Moron, certified as such by the University of Buffoonal Moronity and Complete and Utter Idiocy, headquartered in Brussels, and did not really realise what the consequences of his actions were. Kreplaagh ordered Stague to charge, with his entire force, into the Sunken Colonies of the Vustendian Disbelievers' camp, whilst he himself sat back and Consumpsed a few of the Children That Shall Not Be Named (he always had a few in a travel pack, for emergencies or just plain foodwantingness). Stague's valiant charge wasn't recorded in the Annals of History because the Annals have a strict No-Buffoonal-Moron Policy (the Chancellor of the Annals eternally despised the Dean of the University for some disparaging comments made about his criminally obese daughter, Vale). In fact, nothing of Stague remained. He took the first salvo from the Vustendian Archers directly in the chest and dropped where he lay. His soul drained out and left this realm. Poor little fucker.
The rest of his forces vowed revenge and, in howling maniacry, destroyed the Sunken Colonies, raped the archers with steel poles, and fed the Vustendian Trenchmen to the Great Nipple-Destroying Beast of Karak-Dun. Unfortunately, Stague's forces were decimated to a man. Not one survived.
Kreplaagh led a charge, butchered the rest of Vustendius' forces, and entrapped him for servoexecution.

The Martyrdom of Vustendius, and Realization As Such By His Companions

“Who gives a rat's ass?”
~ Charoth on The death of Vustendius

A Fully Deconstructed and Osmosed Vustendius, Result of Being Consumpsed By Kreplaagh's Vengeance.

Kreplaagh sentenced Vustendius to intestinal osmosis, followed by an especially gruesome radial immersion.
The Intestinal Osmosis was carried out by Dr. Niles Alphulus Cordone III on June 2, 1842, as thousands of Unkempt and Verouse Deriders looked on in amusement. Vustendius uttered not a word as a fire hose was inserted into his colon and his intestines were destroyed by a forced injection of billions of ampules of hydrolytic amnocentric fluids, which destroyed his digestive tract and allowed his stomach acids to spill unchecked into his body cavity.
The Disbeliever remained stoic as he was chained to the Cylinder of Penance and subjected to a full spherical burn at 2000 degrees Centigrate, screaming his denials of Obliquity and his hatred and cursings of Moldovieus and Charoth, until his remains were naught more than cinders drifting in the skies of Grekshire, bound for the Choperis at mid-day, when the Shadows under the trees allow the goats room for sustinence, and young mens' aunts embark on sojourns to the east so that they may catch a glimpse of the burning Bloom as it drenches the Shire and immolates all the pilgrims who, irregardless of the danger of said immolation, still trek to the Shire to place an offering of minced lemon sorbet mixed with rarified Espressogen gas at the foot of the statue of Skythicus the Bane of Woodsdaleglen.
His ashes were reincarnated into a barely-living form, and he was stabbed repeatedly with cinderblocks until he was nothing more than a pulp of dead flesh, which Kreplaagh spread on a piece of toast and took with the rest of his breakfast, calmly sipping his morning coffee and orange juice, reading the paper, until the clock chimed 7:30, that magical time at which he folded his paper, tied his tie, put on his jacket, kissed his wife and children goodbye, descended into his car and rushed off to "work" at his secretary's apartment where he fucked her till she turned blue and no longer knew any form of spoken language (though still possessed immaculate oral skills). It was at this time that Moldovieus and Charoth awoke from stasis and learned of their fellow former-prophetic's horrid demise. They too forsook obliquity and turned to Hedonism, which was a lot less demanding, certainly more fun, and which involved even greater quantities of Espresso and Fine Spirits. In Dawg-town.

Undular Methodology Meets Banal Rectitude; Rectitude Triumphs With Pomp and Circumstance

The Great Annual Obliquodebate (GAO) is held outside of Helvetica on the third day of the seventh month of each annum, in a large glass bowl shaped like a card-key reader, upended and filled with podia and stages linked to faulty electronics and manned by the Canaanites, as the Grand Argumenthes prepare to unfold.
Bujo Marinara Klepps had won this holy bickering ten years in a row, and this year he was a shoe-in for canthic Vict'ry. Unbeknownst to the smarmy Bujo, however, a young man by the name of Tijs Verwest had signed up as a walk-on in this year's debate. He had little experience, save for those arguments he held with his friends Vustendius, Moldovieus, and Charoth (not the Obliquitors discussed above, nay, but their predecessors from whom the afforementioned Obliquitors derive their illustrious titles of t'thyer. These arguments, however, far from followed the delineated exetors of the GAO, but usually dissolved into a rambling thrall of Guinness-thrashing Saxtons throwing their weight around like they bloody well owned the place. The Saxtons would invariably materialize from Vustendius' rectum and immediately set about destroying things of value, such as sofas, curtains, televisions, and pint glasses, without which our hero Tijs could not consume his daily allotment of Guinness. Tijs would grab a sword or a lathe or whatever instrument was around him, and begin hacking these dirty Pseudo-Saxtons to shreds, shreds from whence exuded a foul-smelling cytoplasmic thrushe when removed from their owners.
Thus Tijs joined the illuminous Kontest when he was nigh twenty-three cycles, and prepared to face off against one Cygnus Drathe in the preliminary round. Drathe began speaking in favor of limits on the consumption of Espressogen, for fear that it would anger the Obliquosphere and summon a huge cranst from Canaan to obliterate existence. Tijs scoffed at this notion, and rather than lower himself to the level of responding to Drathe in a structured, logical, progressive argument, he merely drank Columbianic Kafe, allowing himself to intake the Espressogen, and snapped Drathe's neck with a flick of his wrist. The Canannite judges declared that this year's contest was "full contact debate" and thus Tijs triumphed.
He killed his next four opponents in much the same matter, until nobody really wanted to debate him, lest they lose all bodily function and proceed immediately to DeAtH. Who would challenge Tijs? Bujo Marinara Klepps saw this as his opportunity to cement his name forever in the history of Obliquity; if he triumphed over this madman, what would be left save to be blessed with a vision of the Divine Obliquospheric Cortex, which would enlighten him with firth and make him a demigod? He readied his Affirmative and loaded his Revolver, given to him by Julio the Iconoclaste shortly before he was swallowed by the land of Goliad and made to drink fire water with his ancestors.
The debate began with a fluorish of activity. Bujo attacked with the point that the entire concept of Obliquity was just a bunch of crap made up by two kids who hadn't slept in three days because they'd drank about a gallon of espresso each. Verwest countered with the oddly logical argument of "Well, if Obliquity is false, then how did this great Obliquodome get here? Are you proposing the Canaanites erected a structure of such beauty all by themselves, you unmitigated dickwrinkle?" A Canaanite judge vouched for Tijs Verwest, saying that none of them were seen building the dome. Bujo counter-countered, stating, with credible evidence, that the structure, and all others in the land of Shen had been built by a mythical race of brown beings known as the Mequ'ci-q'ans, a race which, though skilled at building and digging, did not possess the necessary required papers of certified Obliquity to remain in Shen, and thus had to hide in the shadows and construct things when either A) nobody was looking, or, B) when a shady and sinister citizen of Shen paid them under the table and erected big white sheets to hide the presence of the Mequ'ci-q'ans from the rest of the world. A bold move indeed! Tijs replied that the existence of Mequ'ci-q'ans was proven false years ago after one General Adamos Markos Pershinkos eradicated them with low-grade pesticides, and that the proof of Obliquity existed in the mind. When Bujo tried to deny this, Tijs attacked, throwing a hand grenade shaped like a holy chalice of Guinness, which exploded in a shower of smooth, rich foam, dark stout, and razor-sharp shrapnel. Bujo's hand was blown off, and he fell to the ground, screaming obscenities that even a Canaanite wouldn't dare use to describe the Phalayst'nyans they hated so dearly.

                                    Espressonthians 1:12
1 And Tijs said unto Bujo Marinara Klepps, "Yea, dost thou heed to me, or shall I, with the Lord's Favoring blessing, chop off thy balls and feed them To my dog?^1"
2 It was then that Bujo, angry at the Lord, did activate The unholy Spike Cannons in his knees, which did erupt In four-and-twenty spikes, which did pierce the thighs of Tijs.^2 Much blood flowed, and there was a great gnashing of teeth.^3
These spikes displeased the Lord, who did use his divine power of I-Can-Do-Whatever-The-Fuck-I-Want-Because-I'm-God-And-Created-This-Shithole To materialize a Beam Rifle in Tijs' hand.^4
3 And the Lord spake unto Tijs: "Thus, shall you destroy This horrid Nonbeliever.^5
4 First, shalt thou put three beams through his dick, And forever maketh him a eunuch.^6 Second, shalt thou destroy the Nonbeliever's right eye.^7 Third, shalt thou destroy the Nonbeliever's entrails.^8 Fourth, shalt thou shove the Beam Rifle up the Nonbeliever's ass and fry him well.^9 Fifth, shalt thou make the Nonbeliever's head burst like a melon.^{10}
5 All of this shalt thou do, using only a maximum of twenty beams, Taking place in less than threescore seconds, in my Holy name, And shalt thou be blessed until the end of time And known as the Champion of Obliquity and Enemy of the Nonbelievers.^{11}

Thus spake the lord, and thus did Tijs do some of the most inappropriate things ever committed with a laser weapon, excluding some of those insane Japanese Gundam doujinshi (I had no idea ten-meter fighting robots could have tentacle sex). In the end it was done, and thus Tijs became the famous one his is today.
Such are the origins of Tijs Verwest, emanating from the threshold of Obliquity. Praise be to Shai-Hulud.


A Treatise of Reaffirmation of the Golden Principles of Anciente Tymes?

We in the land of Shen do ordain an end to this frumulous and terrificient War, that which hath brought such threat to our divine Obliquity. We can only hope, nay, pray, that by invoking the Great name of Tijs Verwest we can reverse this tide of Vustendian heresy that is plaguing us just as it once did plague the Hedonistic Proffets Moldovieus and Charoth. What light can be found in such dark tymes? Aye, do we need the Anciente Tymes. Yea, do we need to cast off our metallic scourges and venerate the elders as the young Grekshirian boys once did before the bloom (a resultant vektor of their later ancestral disrespect and lack of sororital piety). We know now that noone in this holy land will ever be as worthy as Tijs, master of Kafe, was, and as such, none of us really expect to make any progress towards becoming a fusted paramouric skythe, obtaining our Distral Wathes, and joining the once-materialized proffet in witnessing the Cortex of the Divine Obliquosphere (and do we pray that, its will be done, it does not deatomize us with a flick of its cranst, as none of the people of Shen truly desire to be materialized into the walls of the Choperis--that place is dim, dark, dreary, dull, and above all, hard to pronounce. Say it with us, future readers of this historic document. Choperis. Cho-per-is. Show-peh-reese. Good. Now you understand our dilemma). Our legubrious wars have drawn on far enough, and far too many red-cheeked boys have spilled their innocent blood to sate the appetite of Kreplaaagh. Far too many young Spherettes have been pierced upon the symbolic phallic spear of Moldovieus, that sly womanizer! Our priests have fallen about to blithe liquorings. Our knights have left Obliquity for Vaginism, and our children speak of us as though we have made up all of the above history of our world either in our basement at 3am or at work. This is intolerable. What shall we do? We shall sign this pact, that's what! We shall end the wars and begin peace. Let Kreplaagh be welcome in the house of Joan "Charlie" Charles Nolan Criche once again. Let the Iconoclaste be regurgitated from the somewhat-foodwanting ground of ancient Goliad, so that he may make peace with the (hopefully) reincarnated Musicians that he once so vilely despised. Let Tijs and his opponents Cygnus Drathe and Bujo Marinara Klepps come to a peaceful agreement to disagree. Let Juliar the Mindbender keep to his own business and stop fucking with other people's heads, or surely we will drive a railroad tie through every sphincter in his hateful body. Let the Italians win the World Cup (UPDATE: THANK YOU!!!) and let the French finally know a victory (UPDATE: It 'az been ten meelennia ahnd nous sommes steell vaiting on zat one, vous fuckeurs) in this horrid world. Above all, let the Obliquity come to be embraced by all. We are cool if you call it different names, like, hypothetically, "Christianity" or "Islam" or "Buddhism" or "Wang-Worship 101." Just know that the Oblique one desires contact with you, and all that you have to do is prove yourself worthy. Learn the history of what has occurred in these last 3,000 violent years of Shen, so that the future may be clean, bright, pretty, and smart. This document do we sign, in big bold fluorishes so you know how badass we are.


Notarized by Tijs Verwest XVII, P.E.D.

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