Neutralized Goose

Little Snushine Priesthood, Alhambra (or is it San Gabriel?), CA
I mean, Little Sunshine Preschool, Another Country Entirely, Yet 6.8 Miles From My Home

Where upstanding citizens of the planet Flooom, transplanted by necessity after the Great Punging Shortage of XTR44229, send their best and brightest to be groomed, trained, and indoctrinated. Young Floooooomians (n.b. the larger the number of said individuals, the more o's are required) are shuttled to and from Ickle Snushine each day on the backs of their parent-hosts. The average-sized Floomit (i.e. Floomian under the age of 76) can fit quite snugly into the average-sized JanSport backpack, making transportage efficient and safe. Arrest records exist for only one Floomit and its bearer--and that was in 1992, which was of course the darkest year in Earth history for our esteemed visitors. On arrival at LSP, willing Floomits are deposited in the chute that communicates directly with the shrinespace in the unlit bowels of the building--any exposure to sunlight would damage the Priestlings' sensory apparati beyond repair. Unwilling Floomits are hauled back home by their parent-hosts, where they are subjected to severe squeesure until they virtually demand to return to Little Snushine, where they belong.
What occurs in the shrinespace is destined to remain a mystery, at least for the uninitiated. All we know is that the full-grown Flooooomians that survive their course at LSP are among the most powerful, the most highly respected, the most influential beings on this planet today. There are probably one or two in your community--Alderperson Mickey "The Mensch" Porktin (or is that Portnik? Porknit?) has graciously agreed to be "outed" in this column. I've purposely obscured his true name in order to help him preserve a modicum of privacy.

Candypants

"'Eya, Nickel Nips! 'Eya, Wacka Wax! Haul ass ova heah pronto, dat dumbo Pixie Stix wen' all Abba-Zabba on us!"

The Adventures of Master Cleanse and Dunmore Throop: PART I

OPENING VOLLEY: The Coffee Prophet

"Master Cleanse," quoth the Throop,
"I am sluggish, and cold. What remedy can you suggest?"
"Go boil your head in a pot of stale bread.
Yes! That," squawked Sir Cleanse, "would be best."

"But Sir Cleanse," Throop persisted,
"That cannot be right. The Great Coffee Prophet denies it!"
D. Throop was correct. Such an action, in fact--
Well, the Groundsmaster sure would despise it.

For you see, gentle reader,
The Throop and the Cleanse were beholden to someone called Joe.
They were "Slaves of the Bean" (though it might sound obscene);
Lord Tisane was their unrivaled foe.

'Twas for reasons unclear
That the vat of stale bread was anathema to our friends' mission.
Nevertheless, the Cleanse promised redress--
Cuz pots ain't for nuthin' but pissin'.

FIN