TreeHouse Publishing, in conjunction with SmokeHouse Productions proudly presents in cooperation with Karmalogic* (an extension of MAITREYAnalysis)
‘Aesop’s Tree Top Fables’; THE NEW TALES OF AESOP! *
Sponsored by our good friends at SUPERLATIVE SUPPOSITORIES (now with added silicone and lithium). A Great Aid to Adult Burping And a Clear Conscience. Remember, with Superlative Suppositories, ‘You’ll Laugh, You’ll Cry, Yul Brenner!’
*If Aesop were a Middle Aged Tri-Racial, Bipolar American Stoner living in Milano Italy.
Edited by ‘Marmoset Yarn’.

An Ant was being constantly told that its Latin Fixation would get it into trouble, as Ants and Latin didn’t go together. To which the Ant would reply; “Vade, Recumbe in Collis Formica!” Which roughly translates in human tongue as “Go and Sit on an Ant Hill”. His fixation with the Latin language was bigger than he, when he wasn’t helping the colony build, he relaxed by learning, to better his ant future and to engage his cerebral ambitions beyond ant architecture and the science of engineering.
Quite naturally therefore it would happen that while he slept during a fitful nap, he was stepped on by an elephant passing through and crushed by the mammoth beast as it looked for a short cut to the watering hole. Yet, while his friends mourned and agreed that his Latin confused his identity and left him vulnerable to such a fate, he himself, the crushed and unrecognizable ant, died while dreaming that he was a man speaking Latin to a busty babe on the beach who cooed as he spoke to her. And since he died while having this dream, he won’t know that he is dead. He will only know that he is now a tall dark and interesting man who speaks the language he loves, in a life and a land he once dreamed! And he will always retain a strange and fascinating love and appreciation for Deer Antlers, Anthems, Antwerp, Antonyms, fine Antiques, and the curious magical world of ANTS, a world for him that would never quite become antiquated, even as he got old.
Then again, while an insect, he was always seen by his peers in the colony as an ‘Anthropomorphic’ type. And he made a hefty profitable living fashioning and selling ‘FORMICA’ counter tops.

Mathematically, our INCH WORM, ‘Fuzzy Logic’, was actually an inch and a half, and wore his length with pride.

But naturally he flinched under the auspices of being considered a mere Inch Worm when he was NOT an inch worm but more or less an Inch and a half worm finding it hard to garner recognition for the distinction that separated him from them, the more contracted worms. They were like ‘Creepy Crawlies’ compared to him. Plus he was yellow, which made him kind of blond and popular.

What gnawed at him, far more than the misnomer he bore as appellation, was the bipolar irony of being called an Inch Worm in a culture that had Gone Metric.
Therapists were making great money counseling the confused.
And there WAS some Inch Worm Envy that the Centipedes and the Millipedes had gotten their act together and planned ahead.

The point is, the conversation has gone beyond CHICKENS CROSSING ROADS and onto ‘MOTO-CROSS CHICKENS’.
Some Chickens are called to cross roads, they being the fabled Cross Road Chickens of Hen House lore.
And clearly other chickens cross roads because they are under the evil spell of comics who use them to plug up what would otherwise be a vacuum in the cosmic joke hole.
But the ‘Moto-Cross’ Chickens not only cross roads, but borders, chasms and canyons!
These are daredevils, hellions on asphalt.
And they don’t wear helmets, but love their goggles.
Farmers not swayed by their demands soon awaken to find that rooster has crossed the road and taken his many bitches, hatched eggs and all. And how quickly things can go from ‘EGGS-ce-lent’ to ‘Scrambled’ in the frying flat cauldron created by those who dare cross them.
Now, instead of the exhausting canard; ‘Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?’

You can always tell when chickens are under new management. The First thing they do is to march them outside, and make them cross the road. It is the only trustworthy way to see what kind of chickens you have.

A WHITE ELEPHANT was complaining to a PINK ELEPHANT about how he felt that the image connected to his job had become too sensitive, specific and post-racial. It seemed to him that not only had the connotations reflecting his existence become banal with negative contrast, but had also become uncomfortably ethnic.
The Pink Elephant empathetically listened and nodded. He understood the slippery slopes of profiling, the chains that become nooses before you notice. And it was simply ASSUMED that he were an alcoholic instead of just another elephant that liked to drink their weight in beer and who just so happened by genetic lottery to be a pinkish gray. There are pink persons also, though they are generally left alone to their fate. Though as it happens, get caught in a compromising position with a Rhino just ONCE, and soon your identity extends itself beyond just being pink, or any hue in particular.
The answer was as clear as the veneer of their painted toenails.
We’ll invite Green elephants, Orange elephants, Lilac elephants, the mythical pachyderms of Purple prose, and our majestic high mountain Magentas, ‘Elephants’ Gerald, Barry Elephante, and our aloof, ambiguous cousins, the Gray elephants. And we will pray to the spirits of our ancient mighty Yellow elephant ancestors and form AN ALLIANCE!
“And thus shall we sort out the fate of elephant-kind and elevate ourselves to a new status far above the fortune of that poor overworked schnook, THE 800 POUND GORILLA”.
As for the White Elephant, he NEEDED this to work, or it would be back to his unfulfilling job in Linen SALES.

A secret memo was leaked detailing the fact that the governing board of the great and august British institution, the BRITISH BROADCASTING COMPANY were concerned that the term BBC*, was no longer under the strict hegemony of, the B.B.C.  Due to the Internet (and websites such as, but not limited to the revered initials had acquired competing connotations that extended into areas of marketing and production that the original B.B.C. had no investments in, causing grave concern among stakeholders in the Communications giants’ delivery systems and day to day operations.
As it turns out, due diligence reports have assessed that either way, BBC is big money!
(Though B.B.C. vs. BBC doesn’t seem like a fair fight though it may arouse great interest; even the British know that diplomatic value of CIRCUMSPECTION over Circumcision).

Todd was sure that by the time TADPOLE VAULTING became an officially recognized sport in the UNDERWATER GAMES, he would be fit and ready to capitalize on it. He practiced for as many hours as the daylight yielded and many nights before sleep, channeling his inner champion towards the attainment of his vision quest’s grail. He would be the one, he was convinced, who would bring Tadpole Vaulting to its rightful plane, among the various morsels of bread baked in the ovens of the circus of distraction and useful follies.
Youthful idealism, being the chimera that looks at itself in a speculative funhouse mirror, with a fool as a tailor and advisor, will crush hard the hemisphere of his heart and hubris as it crash lands on the forlorn fields that usurp reality’s conditional reason.  By the time he realizes his dream, He WILL HAVE BECOME A FROG, and too old to compete!
Frogs already dominated the Underwater Games as it were, and other species’ sensitivities being what they were, organizers were none too eager to serve up yet another gold medal and round of applause to these Acrobats of Aquatic Sport and vendors of Aquaculture Accessories.
Thinking ahead, he might have called it ‘TODDPOLE VAULTING’, which may have bought him some time.
In despair Todd moved to France.
He knew that Frogs were revered in France.
Though no one had the nerve to tell him exactly what for.
And as luck and fate would have it, Todd had a great pair of legs.

When what we believe is opposed by what we feel, we are weakened by the conflict.

The problem inherent in being a PRAYING MANTIS is the piety expected of them, when in fact but for a typographical mishap, they would be known more comfortably as ‘Preying Mantis’ and therefore not begrudged their appetites. Which are considerable. And they’d be fuller, more round breasted and arm strong from better nutritional intake were they not instead hindered in their meal quests by a fatal misspelling, expecting them to pray rather than eat to their hearts ‘Mantid’ content.
And to make the meditation all the more difficult to swallow, many of the same insects that they would otherwise gorge themselves on, are the main ones who come to them, asking for their prayers.


A worm, finding himself in a box of cornflakes, is horrified to learn that he will be arrested and charged with being a CEREAL KILLER.

The Moral?
Sometimes you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time. It isn’t your fault. It is your circumstance. And circumstance happens.
And if banality is your calling card, better to be a card that is banal than a bard in a canal, especially if the bard cannot swim and the canal is polluted.

Government Scientists were ordered to terminate with extreme judiciousness their successful splicing and breeding of a BUTTERFLY & A MOTH. It was called a ‘MUTTERFLY’ but was deemed a national security issue when too many people complained of hearing the fluttering insects flying around and muttering invectives to themselves.

More than a few dependable persons were said to have heard something from them along the lines of:
“This is bullshit.”

It was true that CEDRIC THE CENTIPEDE was left-handed and had one leg more on his right side.

And it was true that he limped and carried a silver topped cane.
But he was damned sure that NONE of those things were going to make him feel ANY sympathy for a writer trying to craft his profile into a coherent story. Cedric didn’t do ‘narrative’.
The Moral?
Cedric the Centipede’s lawyers have ‘injuncted’ me from attaching a moral to his situation. So we will go allegorical instead.
“TIMUS My Father, TIMUS My Son
But Time Waits For No One
Except for Tom Waits.”

Sloppy the SLUG was slow.

How slow?
He could be timed with a calendar.
His fastest time was the month of June.

Often the demonstrations of nature reveal that THINGS ARE WILLING TO BE WHAT YOU ARE WILLING TO SEE, Reality being at least as flexible as imagination. Trees swaying in the breeze are great holographic meditational devices.

Our COLLECTIVE REALITY is a general agreement; your personal reality is a lot more suggestive and inclusive of the many overlapping points in the undulating fabric of space/time. A fixed point in reality is only a fixed point of perception. THERE IS NO FIXED POINT, which is why I always assume that WHEREVER I AM, is the center of the universe.

Reality is what YOU say it is. Time does consider your voice.


We have just learned that the unfortunate worm that was sentenced for execution after being found hidden in a box of cereal was swallowed whole by a Mexican Minister in a Margarita glass.
DEATH BY TEQUILA, strawberry to be exact.

Silly GIRAFFE. Who else gets rushed in an emergency to the Veterinarian to have a ladder removed from their throat? Though this might explain some things about how giraffes came away with such long ass necks.

Even the blessed tolerant Greeks were not quite ready for the God/Goddess, HERMAPHRODITE. Sacrificing its BBC, it lopped it off to settle nicely into the role of Aphrodite, which was initially spelled AFRO-Dite before it was changed to accommodate ethnic ethics. The change of spelling increased her housing options….

To monetize the expansion of VOWELS, the Alphabet is being taken public. Writers will be expected to pay for the use of all non-symbols, though their publishers may pay on their behalf. This will purchase 1500 words. And then for more letters, one buys another 1500 word allotment. This keeps most articles short.

..After which, the plan is to take NUMBERS public, as soon as due diligence is done and relative values can be assigned.

A ZEBRA was oft given to imagining himself in the afterlife. He would at times break into villas and mansions when no one were home, simply in order to lie down on the marble flooring, and see what it would look like after it had died and been made into a RUG.

He was certain that he belonged in these fine homes as much as any of the other woebegone creatures whose pelts furnish homes with accessories and other luxurious exotica.

More important than what we believe is what we have faith in.

Think of an INCH WORM born inside a NUDIST COLONY, his vision of himself forever altered.

The garrulous Ladybug was more than clear that just because she was a Beetle didn’t make the band she was the lead guitarist in, the Beatles. More like the Beat-less. But being in a band was still the equivalent of being on a mission, and she was clear about her missionary position!

But for just ONE LESS WHISKEY Shot, Herman Melville’s editors wouldn’t have had to convert MOBY DICK from his original MOBY DUCK. The editors failed to see the commercial value in publishing a book about a man’s quest to find a giant white duck. An even earlier draft had no whales anywhere to be seen, but was Set in WALES. In a CIRCUS. Capt. Ahab was a ringmaster and having an affair with one of the acrobats. A woman so flexible and alluring, he called her a ‘Mobius Stripper’.

The Boy Scout Master’s name was DICKENSON, always a problem when trying to recruit the young boys of suspicious fathers. (;d)

BEARS HIBERNATE during the Winter. Which makes being a POLAR BEAR confusing, as they are meant to sleep during the season they were best created for.

And yet, there is the belief amongst the newly fuzzed of ‘Beardom’, that polar bears are the dream selves of all other bears who sleep through the magical frost buds of the frozen kingdom’s vernal equinox and feeding itself tales from its own infinity loop.
The Moral?
Contradiction is too busy basking in the luxury of being all sides at any time.

That some consider us the mutational offspring of Monkeys pisses monkeys off more than we can imagine.

That ‘Monkey’ is but one consonant more than MONEY, pisses them off even more.
To add insult to injury, the letter differential, ‘K’, is the symbol for A $1000 dollars.
And we can bet that the next monkey you see with a $1000 will be the last.
The monkeys have always felt cheated out of a rightful inheritance.
MONKEYS: THAT Close to MONEY, but Just That Far Away!

MARMOSET’S, which are in essence Monkeys without Nails but Claws, are long standing practicing ‘BOOTY-ISTS’.

It is not as if they don’t understand and appreciate the great Buddha and his philosophy, but simply trust that they understand Ass even more….
Of course, the Marmoset motto is: When In Doubt, Go Overboard!
(Which was an overhaul from their original axiom, ‘When in doubt, start doubting’).

A SNAIL was determined to catch up to the Nail as it raised its head from the board.

Making haste as only a snail can, with great, willful and lathering effort, the snail finally caught up to and then even to his own surprise surpassed the nail.
The snail trail he left in the wake of his sails pales in comparison to the meaning it entails.
He forever knew that he could beat nails.
And that nails may be tough (even the males), but they sure are slow!
And never seem to leave wherever they go.
He now delivers packages for the government postal service.

In a Mosaic moment, ‘Marmoset Yarn’ heard the BURNING BUSH speak to him. It said: “Dude, Put Me Out!”
Using his quick mind, he dashed the fire with his bong water and as the steam hissed, made a mental note to himself. “Marmoset, you gotta stop getting stoned in the park!”

*Karmalogic’s mystery will be unveiled just as soon as we figure out how to both further exploit and monetize its many enigmas.
OK, gotta go now. My Ruffled Feather Collection Needs Replenishing. And I assiduously refute allegations that they were smuggled and trafficked from untended Costa Rican graveyards by Nuns in Black Garters and Birkenstocks.
And remember, IF THE PATH DOES NOT LEAD BACK TO GOD, it is a Dead End!

Our greatest act of political will is demanding what we deserve.
It was master Ralph Waldo Emerson who was credited with having written: “ He Who Would Be A Man Must Be A Non-Conformist”.  Mindless conformity* kills the divine spark and is motivated by fear.
And to paraphrase some of the great Omar Khyyam, we quote from his ‘RUBAIYAT’:
“The Moving Finger Writes
And having writ
Moves on
Nor shall all of your
Piety or wit
Lure it back to cancel
Even half a line
Nor all your tears
Wash out a word of it”.
Thank you.
* Unless Mindless Conformity pays really, really well, and you don’t mind! After all, sometimes a divine spark is a pain in the ass as well. So forget what Emerson said. Who is Emerson?

MILANO* October 8th, 2014

*Milano, Italia, Lombardy, Europe, the World, the local galaxy, the universe, and all dimensions thereof, including the INSIDE of planet Earth, your mind, and its colonies on the Moon, Mars, Venus and Mercury and our roots in Alpha Centauri.


Se lui non ti conosce, allora tu non puoi conoscerlo
Si él no sabe quién es usted, entonces usted no puede saber quién es
S'il ne vous connaît pas, alors vous ne le connaissez pas
Wenn er Sie nicht kennt, dann kennen Sie ihn nicht
Kare Wa Anata O Shiranai Baai Wa, Anata Wa Kare O Shiru Koto Ga Dekinai.
And finally in our native AZERBAIJANI: O YOU Bilmir, Onda Siz Onu Bilmirem biler.


All Sanskrit, Basque and Bengali translations available courtesy of Google Translates!

*If you are reading past this line, you may have gone too far! Go back now before it is too late!!!!