Freudo Unbound:
Things to Undo
in Demver
When You're Dad

The last time Sir Freudo was in Demver, he had been thrown out of the Gimpy Hippie Coffee House by the Gimpy Hippie Coffee House Nice Nazi Lady ... for being a little too Hobbit-colored for his own good.

Apparently, they didn't serve Hobbits at the Gimpy.

Certainly, not his type, anyway. All he'd said was that he wasn't there for the Uncreate '68 meeting at all, and was most certainly no spy. He was merely there for a hangout to meet with the counter insuccient rock band he was then smoking with on the patio, and then, later, to meet "a bunch of witches who were with his girlfriend at the church down the street" ... too which he was immediately thrown out of the place for being too Hobbit-colored.

But Freudo was way too far gone now to worry too much about over the counter liberal arts cruelties served during an election year filled with so much uninvented sorrow, anyhow. But the event at the Gimpy still hurt, somehow, as all hurts will ... when hurting is most self-oriented.

Perhaps it was true, yes, he had some inhibited soft Hobbit guilt inside ... some deep need to fix it all since his people had fucked it all up so bad. But was there any just reason, other than being talkative and eccentric, to be thrown out of the Gimpy Hippie on a bright Sunday morning?

Seemed a tad unfair. Very Gimpy, yes ... but Hippie ... decidedly, not so much ...

If only because even in the halycon days before the Bushites pulled the plug on the center of the earth, attempting to leave, quite successfully ... most might say ... the entire planet in unbrokered flames and ruin ... he tried to help in any way he could to depublicize to its proper light the notorious Uncreate '68 brough ha ha ... and still remain quite liquid when it came to both fast cash, coins and Gimpy Hippie eloquence ...

But everywhere Sir Freudo went ... he seemed to be learning and re-learning all along the way ... when he wore The Ring (copyright notice goes here) ... people treated him like they were in danger of receiving the blight of too much sun ... and so, the off-putting counter insucciency ...

If the anything, the Nice Coffee Nazi Lady at the Gimpy Hippie in Demver ... where poor Freudo doesn't have a friend at all anymore, it appears ... was yet more proof that on the road to Mythville ... ding dang Demver is just plain too Otherstuffsville at this point to consider as a proper option ...

At least until, that is, the Nice Coffee Nazi Lady at the Gimpy Hippie in Demver is willing to accept his apology for being too soft Hobbit colored and all ...


Just Before Crossing the Swamp
Where the Battle Once Was ...
Beware: The Dadlands!

As reported by KGB-TVHO, Harlingen, Texas ... Sir the Artist Formerly Known as Frodo Now Known as Freudo has been reportedly ... um, transported ... to deep South Texas, at the mouth of the Rio Grande River, and he was mumbling something, sounded like he was jabbering, actually, to himself, in Japanese or Navajo or something, as if he'd gone completely insane over the so-called magical Ring of Doom (copyright notice goes here) ...

Before that he reportedly said, "All of the king's soldiers are slaves, same as the whores, but I'd won't sleep with either and I sure as hell won't fight without any reason," said Sir Freudo. "There is nothing left to prove, nothing left to discuss, nothing left to do, but love."

At the sound of these words, several reporters ... um, reportedly, left the room screaming with their ears on fire and their mighty pens melted. An occurrence to which those who remained at the impromptu press conference held on the beach at South Padre Island, just off the jettie allowing now, floating dead birds and dead fish and dead dreams to fog on in to the inlet leading to Port Isabel, once a quite seaside town, now a quite Wormwoodianly enclosed seaside ghost town, all of the king's reporters and all of the BP men in hazard gear ... the whole greasy crew, stood there, agape. Awed. Amazed, even, at the visit of such a person as dear Freudo.

"Diffusing lies, one day at a time," he laughed at the rest, scoffing. "You guys wouldn't know Hitler if he walked right up to you and handed you a letter to the editor, hah! ... as if that's a doctor's visit to anyone anymore."



Frodo, the Missing Years, Day ... Whatever ... Summer, I think ...

Frodo sat on a rock, made of plastic, overlooking Black Cibola, the famed city of glorified Mammon, and took another look at the Ring, which he decided to keep, then give away, then send out a rescue team to get it again, because they said, "What a shame." He looked at the so-called "Ring of Power" and said to himself, "Wow, what a piece of shit."

Sure, he was eating better. Feeling better about himself, empowered and all with his mission, as well as the book deal. His effort to throw it into Mount Eyechart in Iceland was a bust, and that was the wrong damn volcano, anyway. Then, returning to the Shire and moving down south fast by personally Fed Exxing himself to the Port of New Orleans, there was the by this time well-publicized mission to throw Ring into the Oilcano. But the pressure was too much. The Ring, tiny as it was, seemed to slip off everything down there, no reasonable planned fittings at all ... clearly it wasn't mean't for that. Not at those depths. Not at those freezing temperatures.

And so Frodo ... or Freudo ... as he was more gladly apt to call himself, had earned something of a public name by, first, like we said, deciding to go George Costanza on the whole thing, keeping the ring ... and before that, trying to be a hero, that failing ... either earning scores of favorites from different quarters, most of them somewhat mixed in their own motives about the Ring, or then, at the polar extreme edges, earning the scorn of those who claimed he was not only a quitter, but a greedy one at that.

"The road to hell is paved with ... ," he thought, just as he heard a bustle in the hedgerow behind him.