baulerphonic text-systems

The more cautious traveller should be warned that the building that smells like "a world of shit", a paradigm of '90s-style Stealth Architecture, houses people (or perhaps only one person; we have reason to believe there's a case of man-behind-the-curtain syndrome at work here) who occasionally throw stones which, on close inspection, turn out to be rather rubbery and fully unharmful potatoes. These potatoes, once planted, do not grow, leaving potato-assulated ersatz farmers confused. We suggest throwing the potatoes back at the building; although the sound-dampening qualities of the building disallow one the satisfaction of hearing a mushy potato go splat, it does keep the potatoes out of the hands of children -- the potatoes, when distilled, make a gray liquor which may have hallucinogenic properties. The infernal mechanations which take place to produce such vegetables is not known. Most often, the inhabitants of this complex are either asleep of screaming their damn fool head off about some nonsense, occasionally indulging impulses to run around in circles and engage in "acting a fool", or as the local vernacular describes it, "loony goofball antics". Reports of a "child and small animal army" are generally believed to be nothing more than Leriland folklore, though at night, on ocasion, travellers have been known to hear "scatting" coming from inside the building. Visitors are welcome, though a slight recovery period is often in order upon leaving -- often people leave babbling about such arcane and otherworldly subjects as the kung-fu potential of prosthetic limbs or the proper way to throw books at walls. Potato poisoning is possible. When asked the relationship between potatoes and his home-state, Iowa, majordomo and presidente mui grande D. Bauler commented cryptically "Oh, fuck, that's right, it's corn; okay, well, that's cool, i mean, call any vegetable and it'll, shit, I used to know this, but yeah, okay, right". When pushed for details on his relationship with his neighbors, he grew even more cryptic, whispering "...weirdos, like belly-dancers and things. a lot of cloth happenin' down there. and they're always playing those crazy drums...it's a good thing i'm not a weirdo."

Judgement on that final statement, at this time, is out.

Continue onward... Big Jim

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