cont'd ...

"Did you do this on my head?" he asked the goat (who had been dreaming a little. "Me? No, how could I? I do it like this!" she replied. And plippety plop a pile of toffee-coloured little balls tumbled on the grass. The little mole found them almost appealing.
"Did you do this on my head?" he asked the cow, who was chewing the cud. "Me? No, how could I? I do it like this!" And kersplosh a big brownish-green pancake flopped into the grass just next to the mole. He was very relieved that it hadn't been the cow who had done something on his head.

"Did you do this on mye head?" he asked the pig. "Me? No, how could I? I do it like this!" replied the pig. And plop, splat a little, soft borwn pile fell on to the grass. The mole held his nose.

"Did you do this on my...?" he was going to ask again. But as he came closer, he saw only two big, fat, black flies. And they were eating.
"At last someone who will be able to help me!" thought the mole. "Who did this on my head?" he asked excitedly. "Keep nice and still," buzzed the flies. There was a short pause. And then: "It is clear to us that it was a dog."

Finally the little mole knew who had done the business on his head.
Basil, the butcher's dog! Quick as a flash, he climbed on to Basil's kennel... And pling a tiny black sausage landed right on top of the dog's head.

Satisfied at last, the little mole disappeared happily into his hole underground."

Another note. I've just deleted the profile of someone called "Huggins". Apparently it is CJM.

Back on thread,it will not be the last time GY.
Ludwig never visited the site, thanks for the look in to the place.
Last post maybe breathed life back in to this?
No problems with the of topic stuff, I have a Sharp mind, but just can not find it at present.
Tried to keep up but found I could not see the Forrest for the trees.

once you are deleted from this forum do you just create a new email and join? why do ppl like to change their user names all the time. must not be so happy with it for some reason.

so his blog's still not as entertaining as here it shows if what GY says is true. Now GY has to play investigator too.

Lexi: good story, thx for sharing.

how about a rule: stop pretending to be someone you're not. saves a lot of people a lot of time and wat else. if u can't figure yourself out, go get professional medical help. it is not a job for the members here to figure u out.

Facing the music, that was the thing.

Certain village people seemingly hadn't wanted to face the music. There was even a song about it:

"We can't face the music,
Nobody can face the music ..."

or something to that effect, Forrest felt sure.

However, before he left the altiplano and the ruins of Olobombastiplatlanatl Forrest felt it necessary to face down the superstitions of the local inhabitants, superstitions that held that Forrest's near-sacriligious 'clearing by fire' of the ruins the previous evening would be ineffective in banishing the rock-people spirits from the ruins.

Luger and Ruger close to hand, Forrest waited in the darkening ruined amphitheatre of the Temple of Gloom. Forrest absent-mindedly rubbed the dark green obsidian flask, an icon of some sort seemingly related to the Aztec god of Smoke and Mirrors, Tezcatlipoca, that he had found on site. Fingering a mole on his forehead, he found himself thinking of the old song 'I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair'. Virtually invisible in the dark in his black GELATO uniform, Forrest waited, confident any rock people that showed up would get more than they bargained for.

A wisp of grey mist, barely noticeable, left the obsidian flask unseen by Forrest and dissipated into the amphitheatre. The genie was out of the bottle!

Forrest wondered why anyone thought there was any refuge in Cyberia. The real threat was as it had been described by ABBA, 'always behind you, always to find you.' It was the Taiga. The endless stretches of permafrost, sub-arctic bog, and stunted pine that prevailed where latitude was extended and users strayed from the beaten path of topics, in which short one-liners could get one lost in the frozen wilderness quicker than anything.

Suddenly the hairs stood up on the back of Forrest's head! A human form was materialising that Forrest recognised: Billy Thorpe! And with it thousands upon thousands of Aztecs! "Run, Forrest, run" shouted the voice in Forrest's head, and for once he took his own advice.

Its said Olobombastiplatlanatl rocked that night.

Forrest:

I hope that you will take up Graham's suggestion to produce an article. You write beautifully. Your rhythms are the rhythms of speech yet you supply us with another dimension. Some subtle truth, some supreme fiction which adds to our understanding of life and what it is. Like D.H. Lawrence's poem, "The White Horse."

"The youth walks up to the white horse, to put its halter on
and the horse looks at him in silence.
They are so silent they are in another world."

Or Turner's "Romance."

"When I was but thirteen or so
I went into a golden land.
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi,
Took me by the hand.

My father died, my brother too,
They passed like fleeting dreams.
I stood where Popocatapetyl
In the sunlight gleams."