Marquard Aardvard Farquard Was A Friend of Mine

Well, I managed to navigate my way back to the "Palace" and I thank you gents for your help, i.e.making me a co-honcho of this here Blogosity (Jim) or whatever the correct job title is and for the detailed e-mail of steps to take (John) to get to here from where I was. At some point the screen instructed me to contact "Rus" for an invitation so I knew that I was getting off square one in some strange way. Essentially, it was a matter of forming two accounts with the two e-mail addresses and tattooing the respective passwords upside down on my bay window (I just have to glance down). So, who the hell is M.A.F.? How should I know? He was a lot easier to name than he'll be to flesh out. Let's just say for now that he's a shadowy guy from old New York (he longs for OLD old New York, i.e. New Amsterdam) and he hides his sorrow with many a tankard of whatever was Heineken's "ancestor" from the 18th century. Also, he's haughty as all get-out, feeding off the pomposity of his moniker, unlike the Boy Named Sue who fought against the supposed daintiness and timidity of his handle. And he visits me in the wee hours of psychic twilight when reveries abound of Cholly Knickerbocker's past and future. Well, to be continued....but before I go, am reminded, since this is a kind of party and T.M.R. recommends a wingding at M. Twain's (complete with heaping helpings of L&O, or chocha...we are talkin' Yackson Heights, after all), that I am eager to brag about, and so shall: that I'd be glad to risk a jihadist as a fellow passenger on a 21st century version of Lucky Airlines' {maybe Kalula's?} idea of a Real Ball). Even if he showed up and beat me out for the winning ticket to the exclusive Original Mile High Bimbo Parlor in The Sky, I'd just solemnly warn him that the babes, one'n all, are previously owned models of indeterminate mileage. Recoiling in disgust, Mo'll drop his ducat which I'll grab and be off to the races in my tidy whities. Besides, internet lore assures us that just the sight of a nekked babe dictates suicide for Mr. Nowhere. I'll make sure his scimitar is handy and not any firearm to perforate, besides him, our cabin walls. GO LUCKY AIRLINES!