My Trip

I've been away for the past ten days on a fact-finding mission to the Phlegmish Republic of Hoccchhistan. I found no pleasant facts there. The facts I found were, in fact, alarming and disturbing as all get out.

For instance, the streets of Hoccchhistan are lined with a sticky secretion of amphibian goo, which is the pre-larval stage of the Hoccchhistanians themselves. Each male inhabitant takes the time to gently caress the puddles he passes with an appendage which modesty prevents me from describing, save telling you of its green bulbous flexible nature and length twice that of its tail fins. This no doubt plants the proverbial seed, for a bit further down the road miniature "Hoccchhers" writhe to free themselves of the muck. They eventually do, and go about their pointless existences.

It would seem the chief occupation of the Phlegmish population is to eke out a living - if you could call it living - performing meaningless tasks and in turn, being rewarded with small spherical chits to which they ascribe a value that is difficult to fathom. This eking of chits, rather than satisfying some need, simply spurs them on to eke more chits and then more chits on top of the chits they've previously eked. Never do they pause long enough to realize they're drowning in chits. It's quite sad.

Still, the Hoccchhistanians do manage to occasionally gather for karaoke. They're better than you might think, preferring country-western to pop. They also bowl a 175 average, which is not bad for a species lacking fingers, hands and arms. And they're fond of reality TV as well, especially Survivor.

Their most annoying habit is killing and devouring strangers. Upon visiting the Phlegmish Republic of Hoccchhistan, one must constantly be on one's guard. If you go, try to blend in. Learn the language, use lots of make-up, and remember not to breathe. They hate that.