Sensei Ichiguwa’s dream faded before he was fully awake. Something about rats scuffling in the dark. He found a candle, lit it, and looked around. The door was still ajar, the tatami mat and bell in their places. Sensei Ichiguwa humphed, disappointed.

Things had always been done this way. They must. One could teach anything but will. That was the point.

As a boy Sensei Ichiguwa had entered the Forest of Curses to find a sprig of hemlock. Such a flower, he was told, grows only in sunshine. So look for a clearing in this forest-of-no-end.

The gloom was suffocating. Brambles snaked around his feet. Branches tore at his clothes. Things creaked and groaned making him jump. While shades beckoned in the darkness.

No one entered the Forest of Curses. There the dead walked. There the spirits and demons and monsters dwelt. It was the passage between hell and earth. The gateway between worlds. Keep out of the forest.

Sensei Ichiguwa had survived several battles. He had served two Emperors and foiled half a dozen attempted assassinations. But never was he as scared as when in the Forest of Curses.

For a day and a night he scrambled through the tangled underbrush. Glimpsing dread things from the corners of his eyes. His hearing preternaturally sensitive.

It seemed to Sensei Ichigawa the impressions of his time in the forest overwhelmed the specifics. He recalled very little of it. But the feelings associated with being in the forest lived with him to this day.
He had brought back the hemlock pale and shaking and exhausted; almost insensible with anguish. No shame was attached to his conduct. Rather, Sensei nodded once and class continued.

Ichiguwa looked at the rolled tatami mat behind the door.
The way of the sword is difficult. Even the most promising students stumble. Mistakes could be rectified. Failures could not. The consequences of failing to return with the hemlock were plain. It had happened to many of his classmates.

It had also happened to many of his students. You could never predict which. Aggression counted for naught. Intelligence, cunning, even determination indicated nothing. It was deeper than that.

Sensei Ichiguwa was disappointed nonetheless. Nobokuro had been a good student. Quiet, perhaps even timid, but apt.

The Sensei hefted himself onto one side to blow out the candle. Shadows danced and revealed several small patches of mud on the wood floor. Sensei Ichiguwa smiled and returned to his dream.

To be continued …

Hope all you megabrainy wonderkids have recovered from my last article. Because the bell has rung and reality is comin’ out swingin’.

Do you remember me telling you about the Ancient Egyptian Mummy found by Mr. Wesley Byron Prufrock? Do you remember the deplorable actions of the scurrilous government agents (Media blackouts, meaningless explanations, threats, secrecy)? Do you remember me telling you everything would change? Well, gollygee gumpus! Cram a load of this up your cranium and tell me what you think:

Government strategists are laying square eggs over what they have now termed Mummygate. It seems I was right on the money. Human perspective and brute reality have gone into the ring together, and only one of them is coming out.

So in the left corner we have Pharoah Whoever-He-Is. 3000 years old, if he’s a day, inconvenient truth, and undisputed brute reality. And in the right corner we have us, with more problems than Lazarus with a triple bypass on an Al Quida bungee jumping expedition in Washington D.C.

The questions being asked by those oily eggheadded nerds in the government are: How does Mummygate fit into our web of knowledge? And what does it mean for us (the government of course, they’re not concerned with how it would affect the rest of us). And the answers, my fine caped heroes, are more confronting than seeing your Mum at an ‘abortions on demand’ rally.

Mummygate stands in direct contrast to everything we thought we knew. Simple as that. And what does that mean for the rest of us? Well, it proves, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the reality we live under is wrong.

Wallop! K.O. Here comes the ambulance!

Okay, okay, I’ve got some good news and I’ve got some bad news.

Probably better get the bad news out of the way first. Mummygate has the government wondering why anyone should listen to them when they have as tenuous a grasp on reality as the rest of us. For centuries the model of government has been thus: The constituency is a madhouse and the government are its keepers. Mummygate shows them to be just another inmate, with absolutely nothing to justify the influence they exert upon us.

Now for the good news. Realising the impact brute facts have upon our ‘perceptions’ of reality we can now answer an age old Zen Koan once and for all. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it in fact fall? The answer is, ‘Yes’. Facts are facts, if a tree falls in a forest, it falls, regardless of what we might think.

Nobukuro opened his eyes. It was dark and raining and he was sick with fear. He thought of shadows and silence before moving. No one stirred as he crept out of the dormitory.

The sword of his father (now his) was in his Sensei’s hut: A pathetic structure of bamboo tied with flax. It gave no protection from wind or cold. Sensei was indifferent, “This is what it is to be Samurai,” he said.

Nobukuro thought about what had to be done. The door to the hut stood ajar. Remembering his lessons, Nobukuro made sure he was unobserved and circled the hut. On the far side was a window obscured by thin, greasy curtains. The boy found a box to stand on and looked in.

He heard Sensei breathing beneath the window. Something stood behind the door. Nobokuro stood rock still, waiting until the dark images made sense. A rolled tatami mat, with something on top of it, had been wedged behind the door. Tip-toeing through the mud Nobukuro returned to the front. His hand snaked to the thing on the rolled mat. It was metallic, the shape of a small shoe. A bell.

The rain fell faster. Several drips from the roof increased their cadence. Nobokuro folded his hand around the bell and eased it onto it’s side. He put it beside him and lifted the mat away. Sensei’s breathing had not changed.

Nudging the door wide enough to enter Nobokuro slithered into his teacher’s hut. He desperately wanted to urinate. Trembling, heart pounding, the boy began to search for his sword.

The smell of stale sweat and sake lingered on the far side of the room. Above him hovered the doughy smell of the roof’s wet hay. And somewhere, somewhere close, was the smell of oil. The oil used for cleaning swords. Nobokuro turned his head and sniffed. Still trembling he crawled in the direction of the oil. His hand felt the hard wood floor. It moved over a jumble of cloth ripe with the smell of sweat. And onto a soft cylindrical object. Something was wrong. The boy put his face to the thing, almost touching it with his nose.

Sensei groaned and shifted in his sleep.

The rain stopped.

The silence was absolute.

Nobokuro panicked. His mind filling with excuses for waking Sensei – all of them weak and unbelievable. ‘I can’t do it,’ he thought.

Shame mixed with panic. Tears welled and his throat constricted. ‘Remember your lessons,’ he thought. ‘Master your emotions. That is the purpose of this task.’ His breath slowed and the search continued.

The cylinder smelt of tallow. A candle. Not a hilt, as he had hoped. The boy’s hands crept along the floor. Moonlight eked through the clouds and spilt onto the ratty curtains. Sensei’s breathing came like surf crashing on a distant shore.

Nobukuro found the sword.

He made sure nothing lay on top of it and slid it into the sash he wore at his waist. He turned for the door.

To be continued …

Gee Whiz have I got a blockbuster today Kid-er-inos! It’s more explosive than God’s orgasm – the Big Bang.

Remember Mr. Wesley Byron Prufrock Super Kids? Remember he’d discovered a genuine Ancient Egyptian Mummy? In the wall of his 41st floor apartment no less? And do you remember I said everything would change because of this? Well EVERYTHING IS CHANGING!

Wow, wow, and Super Wow! (Sounds like a dog with a harelip!)

The authenticity of Mr. Prufrock’s find is beyond dispute. The eggheads agree (and these people are so smart they have trouble keeping up with themselves): the Mummy has lain UNDISTURBED for three and a half thousand years. All that remains is to explain how it got there. Bit of a head-scratcher if you consider that until last year the Q1 didn’t even exist!

The tub-thumpers have made up a name: ‘Latent Transcognitive Postactualization’. Gadzooks! No one knows what this means. If indeed it means anything. I think it’s another political Band-Aid. Make us think they have the situation in hand. Scoundrels!

But the word from the inside is far clearer, and far more confronting. Stop right here Brainiacs if you’re not prepared to have your academic pants kicked. Alright. For those brave few still reading put your minds in hyperdrive!

The Mummy (say the super thinkers from the shadows of Government) was always in the building’s walls. Even before the building was built. Once the building was built the Mummy could be discovered.

What Ho!!!??? It sounds like these people would understand me if I told them they’ve got their heads stuck so far up the arses only their feet are sticking out.

Look at it this way: When Dr. Stanley Livingston found Henry Morton living with the tribespeople of Africa, he gave Mr. Morton a copy of the Times. Reading material or toilet paper? The decision must’ve been agony.
The natives, not knowing information could be relayed through print, interpreted what Mr. Morton was doing (reading) the only way they could: ‘Anything,’ they said, ‘that could make a person want to stare at it for so long must be some sort of eyebalm.’ As far as the natives were concerned the Times WAS eyebalm (Golly how times change).

Knowing this it’s easy to understand the Mummy problem. Until the Q1 was built we (the human race) didn’t have the ‘perspective’ to recognize the Mummy where it was, for what it was. It (the Mummy) was always there. It wasn’t on our radar because our radar wasn’t sophisticated enough.

Now for me that makes about as much sense as a metaphysical riddle scrawled in a dead language by a madman who was illiterate. Wowza!

Any readers not knocked to the floor? This is a lot to take in, so I might leave it here for today. Be assured I’ll be back soon with the latest news (If I get paid).

P.S. I’m getting very, very fed up with Minute Noodles. Since I get paid per comment I’d really like some attention here please.

Hi there Superkids! My name is Colonel Macdaver. And while I’m waiting for my taxi license I’ve swung a job with the Yowie. Bonza!

Now I’ve got tons of fun stuff to tell you. But it’ll have to be one thing at a time.

Okay chaps and chaperinnas, fasten your seatbelts. I’ve decided to begin my (probably short) career with the Yowie by dishing out a meal cold, hard facts: On Monday September 10, 2007 a genuine Ancient Egyptian Mummy was unearthed in a Surfers Paradise Highrise.

Wow! Put that in your almanac and file it.

As you might imagine this will knock the socks off those fuddy duddies whole failed me in highschool history. In fact it might turn a lot of commonly accepted ideas on their ear. That’s probably why no one else is reporting it: Media blackout. Too hot for the public to handle. Indiginous backlash etc. We at the Yowie, however, think you’re big enough to hear the truth; gadzooks, so here it comes!

It begins with Mr. Wesley Byron Prufrock. A resident on the 41st floor of the Q1 building, in Surfers Paradise. Mr. Prufrock reported an odd swelling in his eastern wall on September 9. With building maintanence still at least 3 to 6 weeks away, Mr. Prufrock began stripping back the wallpaper covering the swelling. And what do you know? As he peeled back a layer of bright pink and orange speckled paper he spotted a rotted, sepia colored finger wrapped in a rag and pointing up at him like a fishhook! Wowza!

Now Mr. Prufrock is a man of the world. He thought someone was having a bit of fun. Probably the maintainence guys who regularly hoisted his underpants up the thirty foot antennae on top of the building. So he decided to trump their prank by calling in the media!

Smashing idea; what!

I had to barge my way through the living room. Sixty Minutes were interviewing Q1’s manager, CNN were calling in experts, and photographers were snapping away like a crotchety mother-in-law in the back seat when you’ve got lost.

Damn bad luck fellows. But before I could interview Mr. Prufrock the riot police arrived. I thought I was in Sydney! Guns, shields, riot batons and capsicum spray. We were all told (by a very friendly fellow from the government) that if we wanted to live to see our next paychecks we would not print a word or image of what we had seen today. In fact, the buttoned up blighter threatened us so much, and so convincingly I could see some fellow reporters seriously considering the drop from Mr. Prufrocks 41st floor balcony.

(I must admit, I did egg some of them on)

Lucky for you, Super Champions, I’m virtually assured of being sacked before the Yowie gives me a dime. So that paycheck threat means nothing to me (Take that Mr. Government Cover-Up Person! Ha!).

Gee whiz; this is the most important archeological discovery since I found where the dog buried my remote. Maybe even more so. To cover it up because of political expediency or racial sensitivity is, darn it! wrong, wrong, wrong. And even though the project has been hushed up I have eyes and ears in places you people wouldn’t believe! Places I probably shouldn’t. Places that would probably get me a cell-buddy named Bubba. So I’ll keep you posted; right oh?

P.S. I get paid per comment on this story. So let’s hear it Wonder People!

Cows!

The master species of our planet. Beatific Gods on earth. Wise, content, humble.

Hindu’s have the right idea. Prostrating themselves before these sublime creatures. Blissfully above the mundane concerns of petty humans. Cows are always dignified. Even when they’re going to the slaughterhouse, they shuffle along without protest.

Cows.

Cows have five stomachs. Any creature with five stomachs must be a God in a land like ours. Where over-consumption and obesity rule. Where your place in the business hierarchy is determined by the size of your paunch. Where blissful bovine ignorance is the mark of a leader.

You doubt me still?

Well if you needed any more proof (that cows surpass us in every way) go no further than this: Cows have four dicks, not one (like us). And they get jerked off everyday! How cool would that be? Orgasming four times in a row! Everyday! Why do you think they moo in the milking sheds?! Think about it: humanbeings make much the same sounds when they’re having sex. Hmmm …
When they’re done the cows probably go out back for a ciggy.

Better still, they byproduct of this intercourse is bottled and sold at extortionate prices throughout the land. It’s a staple! Everyday begins with it. Every infant is reared on it. And every cow has a bangin’ time giving it.

And what’s with the cow’s distendable jaw? It chews in a circular motion. Awesome! What man can watch that without a bolt of eroticism?

Five stomachs, four dicks, no brain, and a distendable jaw. Gods.

Without meaning to sound smug … it was only a matter of time.

The World Asscoiation of Printed and Electronic Media has bestowed upon the Yowie its highest honor: The Journalistic Medal of Honor. This award is bestowed upon the media exhibiting the highest level of truthfulness and impartiality in reporting news. Rather than being awarded upon the merit of a single article the Journalistic Medal of Honor represents the general output of any media organisation.

Which means, for you dear reader, the Yowie’s stories, while being the news you need to know, are reported in a way you can trust. When a cure for blueballs was made part of the PBS (20/10/06) Terry Wrist of the Yowie was there, reporting as and when the facts came to hand.

Though it’s not just the hard hitting facts. While most people don’t even believe in Centaurs the Yowie’s reporter, Chiron, interviewed with one! (11/10/06) That’s why the Yowie can be trusted: We get the stories no one else can.

It was the world media that followed the Yowie after Megumi Kusanagi blew the lid on what is now internationally recogniseed as The Frankenstein Conspiracy (6/11/06). A story that shook the very foundations of politics.

If you’re a regular reader of the Yowie you’re probably thinking I’m preaching to the choir. However, the reason for this article is twofold. First, to let our readers know their intelligence in selecting the Yowie for their source of factual, important news has now been recognised globally. Secondly, to thank our devoted readers for their patronage. We will continue to provide you with the facts, indepth interviews, and the kind of ethical standards only a journalist can deliver.