The Reality of Knowing Nothing at All -Jim Meirose

The Reality of Knowing Nothing at All -Jim Meirose        

Part 1 

Plant these rose seeds; hi, Pachasandrim here. Today’s tale concerns things way back in nineteen ninety-four, the year that a youngish Paul Repititian took the job of Chief Peninsulander. We’ll be homing in on the first three years of his tenure, those being marred by undeserved frightful suspicions and rumors, which we will detail down here. Memories from back that far are o’ course very, very hazy, and few, if any written record keeping was done ‘round here ‘bout that time. But, even as the years dragged by, pushing ninety-four back into the soupy haze of the past which dissolves everything inexorably, several oldsters, leaders in every practical meaning—plant—of that word, these being Earlie VonScarff, noted mother of the already late when born Han-Job, he of the Mighty Grip, and his large small dogface, Lucy. Through the years Earlie had always been by nature maddeningly hesitant and tentative, so much so that one wag termed him ‘er Mistress Hesitation De Tentativette, but; she did manage after several years of no actionable talk—that being very lucky for both of our Earlies, given the dread n’ dreadette’s running the mainland prison system a’ t’ ‘ime, heck, a rare bit of luck indeed. Moved to finally put pen to several score reams of costly hi-papyrette, the hand-made Frenchy inportationed type to boot, and so doing so carefully as to not pierce the foolishlies’ thin-cap, he wrote down as following—and, we hereby quote; these—this—that—Mister—plant—Paulie Repititian, as we knew him back o’ that way, out-mystified us all, in all both our ends, as did the twenty-four year old Vicky Poole, who had become mayor so one year prior, that we all ‘urned rou’ saying, We-hah, s’we got a mayor now? Huh. Never ‘curred to us, we needed a mayor, heh. But it seemed okay, ‘t did, uh ‘cause it’d never occurred in us th’t we didn’t need one also, so we figured now, how much trouble could it cause anyplace even if she wuss cas’ were some bad actor of a human, bent on seeding us under with some rot-tan evil bedpods filled with some sorts of scams—the practical—rose—cause, of our deaths from this strain of bad luck ‘oulda’ been limited, anyway, ‘cause in that time there were barely one hundred dozens of us out here—that leaving out all males also, actually—well, it has to be men-tionned here, this entire passage of VonScarrf’s manustrippe was rendered illegible round one littl’ past two thousand ah’n ten, from a laborious but misguided scientifically aided back-rollout of McScarff’s ripoff of an imported impossible to return fragility to these actuall ‘assages of Earlie’s faulty master sheet of rolloffed gutta perchament he wrote over the cross of—so, those populizationed people-numbers could be spurious in that specif’ ti’ ‘rem’, but it only being less that twenty-five fifteenths of a tenth of the total weight of the solidifying—seeds—mash screwup when—plant these—so, they got served up at us, even though Guy—you know Guy, you surely do, cause everything gnaws for Guy’s simple egg-roadsmack served throughout all Crockett, out that high far out westway ‘timately spilled out over the Salaraha, we premise the weight of it all, God willing—but, let me peel off the backskin from the bull of th’ head-tale, and tell you that no matter this, en no mattah that, Vicki was in having solidly spiked the ball down in overstriped all goaliepostal end-mayoral territory, but, we swore to not let no gnawthing snick up under ourselves never gain-gen, but—one year later—and it must have been—rose—so soon, because the first rounds of beatings had left us weak, and our eyesight hazy. So— 

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