While Analagous, There Are No Implications

Trolls are responsible for the inordinate number of typographical errors in this recollection.

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Here in the decrepit, lurid jungles of debauchery, the mongoose pauses to recollect.

These jungles are twisted, polluted, but on the other hand mostly benign. Like many of the world's deepest plunges of morass, this expansive world of undergrowth and foliage presents the identity through a different lens than normal land. That is to say, people change.

Dr. Mongoose noted a heightened sense of emotional suggestion, trying to apply objective science to the phenomenon - the expedition was mad!

Absolutely rollicking mad! Aside from other ills, sanity in the jungle is protection from the greatest enemy of all:

"ZORGONS!"

And there they were - the Zorgons, specters of the very essence of the jungles overpowering darkness, had suddenly born down upon the expedition. Thinking quickly, Dr. Mongoose called upon the expedition's native guide, Jah'chwa Out-Meanders Brooks, to calm the panicking crew with his knowledge of prior expeditionary experience.

Yes. They would get out of this, together - they always did.

And lo, The Zorgons were vanquished in a bitter struggle of loudness, but their powers had overwhelmed Captain Bandana, who lethargically came to realize his own feverish heat. The expedition's two heat-related experts - Dr. Emmalyn Vicatin Precarious III, expeditionary physician; and the most prestigious fashion consultant in the land, Sir Imaginary Representation of an Unknown Entity, Esquire.

"I dunno," queried Irue (as his many male friends called him), "ith he like, Heath Ledger hot, or Captain Bandana hot, because the Captain ithn't very hot, mm-mmm, no."

At this point, Dr. Emmalyn snapped. Dr. Mongoose supposed that was why they called her "Precarious," but then he realized that was just her last name. Perhaps she was tired of Irue's constant depreciation of the urgency of situations like this, where Captain Bandana clearly was dangerously hot, and in danger of descending into feverish delerium. Dr. Mongoose could see the battle raging in his body: only the most stubborn final bits of finger holding on to the ledge of consciousness, refusing to submit to the wily Zorgons' assault upon his immune system. A soldier to the core!

To Irue snapped the Doctor, "Oh, thanks bitch!" and with a battle cry lunged for her throat. Desperately grappling at Dr. Emmalyn's icy hands, Irue desperately wheedled "Oh, no offense, I kind of just insulted myself too! I swear!"

Now, dear reader, you may wonder how there was even enough time for that sentence to progress, for surely by now the other expedition members would have intervened and attempted to restore Dr. Emmalyn to sanity. But they didn't. Maybe it was the will of the jungle, its powers seducing us into inaction. Perhaps it was because it was commonly agreed, after all, that Irue was generally a worthless piece of shit not suitable to lick a real person's boots.

Captain Bandana came to doubt that he was truly ill. "Maybe I'm...I'm fine, I'm - "

"YOU'RE VERY HOT!" shouted the Doctor, desperately. It seemed to her that no one was grasping the gravity of the situation!

But even in these desperate moments - or perhaps because of them - the Captain was joking.
"I hope you like it, because it's all that you're getting!"

Dr. Emmalyn sighed and shook her head. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to confiscate your gun for that one."

"Oh...shit...I'm too delirious to resist..."

Now you see, dear reader, how the Jungle can draw into its mysterious depths even parts of wholes, as our expedition rapidly fell apart. The expedition's guide, a native named "Jah'chwa Out-Meanders Brooks," was called upon by the Doctor to guide her and Captain Bandana to a spot where they culd operate. The three of them were never seen by civilized eyes ever again.

Senator Republidan, in the meanwhile, took advantage of the commotion to escape with the expeditionary hardware quartermaster, Sketchan BadCritic - whose powers of literary criticism, I should add, matched that of a stoned gnat, although she was handy with wrenches and automobiles and other assorted non-literary things.

And further along that tangent, it should not be assumed, dear reader, that this implies a lack of cognitive ability, for truly I suspect that the many working classes of Englishmen whose logical capacities we depend upon for many of our modern society's mechanical workings. Even Dr. Mongoose, the eccentric explorer of uncharted creative territory, who had discovered the beauty and magnificence of things he pulled out of his ass.

Anyway, where was I? The shorter years bring longer tangents, I'm afraid, but there you have it, such is life, and so on and so forth and onwards back to the story. Republidan and Sketchan disappeared somewhere into the labyrinth of undergrowth, presumably eloping, although perhaps one kidnapped the other for some bizarre experiment involving either politics or hardware.

This left only Dr. Mongoose and Professor Grantley, the master grant-applicant. His own field was actually Japanese Furniture Studies, but his skills in procuring grants for research were renowned throughout the land, and Dr. Mongoose felt that he was a vital part of the expedition.

Unfortunately, he too was absorbed by the jungle with a final attack of Brazilian Flying Wombat-Monkeys. Dr. Mongoose suddenly realized - too late - that Sketchan BadCritic's skills were not limited to industrial metallic objects, but also to genetic engineering! It was she who had created these monsters, which promptly ate Professor Grantley and took all of his money.

These are the last thoughts of Dr. Mongoose, patiently waiting for the jungle, finally, to claim him as well. Perhaps someday, these pennings will be found by some curious explorer of the future, and perhaps, I hope, he might be inspired by my wicked tale to explore himself - to explore his soul - and question whether there are truly no limits to the exploration of man; whether no place cannot be conquered by our ingenuity. For ingenuity is the servant not just of hope but of despair, as well, and *eaten by a troll*