Re: To Cerberus

Cerberus quits sulking, sticks one nose under the flap of his tent and mutters to himself, "Christgawdalmighty! It's a French lady. Speakin' French right at me here in front of Zeus 'n everybody! Things is lookin' up."

He explains to the two heads still inside his tent that in message <luvalle.86.00B0A1A6@primenet.com> luvalle@primenet.com (Mother Michele) wrote:

>Dear Hound,
Yoooouuu rrraaangg?

>Would you consider re-posting "Memo from a Wog Dog"?
>In fact, I would treasure a compendium of your postings.
"Treasure." Those French girls. Makes my heart go pitty-pat.

However, one person's treasure is, alas, another's spam. There are others present who may resent a bunch of reposts.

Do you have a web reader? If so, I am abashed and quietly proud to direct your attention to David Dennis' homepage, aka David's Amazing Internet Services WWW Home Page [http://amazing.cinenet.net/], which includes under the hypertext "Scientology critics" a paragraph devoted to Cerberus' ephemera, including "Memo from a Wog Dog.

If not I would be happy to mail you copies. The dirty secret of the writing profession is that none of us throw anything away. Ever.

Recognizing the slight possibility that there might be some demand among those without Web browsers for reposts of WogDog, Demonology 101, my attempts to get Woody laid, etc., I will certainly oblige a larger audience. E-mail me. Don't everybody speak up at once.

Ah, just as I thought. Alone at last, Michele. And just in time, too.

>It's your growl, your bark, your quiet snarl -- and the six luminous eyes
. . . It is? I mean, it IS. Mais sur, ma chere. You betcha. >Michele
>Mais, chanter, rever, rire, etre seul, etre libre,
>avoir l'oeil qui regard bien et la voix qui vibre. -- Cyrano
See that, Woody? Sing, dream, laugh, she says, 'n some other stuff that ain't bad at'all. Do you get mail like this? Huh? Shoulda sent away for that writing course on the matchbook, guy.

And you thought my only talent involved the baptism of fire hydrants. Ha!

Cerberus ____________________________

Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before 'em? ...Why dost thou not go to church in a galliard and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig! I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in?

Twelfth Night, Act I, Scene 3 **********************************************************