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Moosylvania is a misnomered country, which is actually a room with a moose. Because two extra dimensions are perceptible to humans in a room with a moose, it appears that the surface area of the room can be measured in parsecs. In truth, the room barely has room to contain the moose and the equipment required to sustain it's state of suspended animation.

Oh, it's animated alright, but our eyes can't track the movement. I just sit here, smoking cigarettes and waiting for the "package" to arrive.

Ominously, it is suspected by weirdos like Neil DeGrasse Tyson that a room with a moose is entirely fictional, and arises from the mad ramblings of H. P. Lovecraft. Never mind that there are no tentacles. Never mind that gibbering madness is only tangentially referenced. Never mind that Cartman opted for laser eye surgery. It's the thought that counts.

Pining, pining, pining...

Aloft goes the pealings of aircraft. Respond in kind and expect no mercy, for your God is merciless. He wails until placated, and wails again. He is like a big baby, clutching for your breast your whole life. No, God does not give with one huge, cloudy hand and take with the other. He just takes. It's annoying.

The captain settles for fortified wine. First mate takes Kahlua in his coffee. The rest get grog. The crowd settles, a hushed gibbering undercuts the salted moistness of the cabin.

"We are here today to honor a moose. A worthy moose of crusted heritage and slippery elms. He needs around $3.50[1] American. Purge your thoughts of the Loch Ness Monster, drink of the beverages in front of you and salute his mooseness with moped in nostril. Praise Jesus!", began the drawling, moist vocalizings of the bemused First Mate. He scratched his left elbow, recalling Reginald Mordling for some reason. In fact, the connection is all in the mind, so don't feel too badly if you don't get it.

You have two choices. You can be frustrated by a lack of comprehension, or you can realize that unless you ask the author, you won't know for sure.

Consider that most singers perform songs written by somebody else. Then consider that the songwriter his/herself seeks most often to rhyme before reason. Then consider that under that rule, the pretense of meaningfulness jostles with rhyme for dominance. What's left after all that?


  1. "About tree fiity", says Chef's dad.