Taking a Schmutz-Kardassian, or, as earth Humans call it, a “space shuttle” to the surface of the planet, they passed over what is called the Jersey Shore—a lone fragment of the former continent of Atlantis which was not completely destroyed by the last great Transapalnian Perturbation.
From high above, using the onboard ship’s teskooano, Beelzebub gazed longingly at the rows of earth beings lined up on beach chairs tanning.
“Look at them,” he sighed. ”It’s such a shame.”
“What’s a shame?” asked Mr. Gurdjieff testily. He had just about had it with all the moaning about sunbathing.
Beelzebub stepped away from the teskooano and let Mr. Gurdjieff have a peek.
“They look perfectly fine,” he said.
“Well that’s just it. It reminds me of sunbathing on the Holy Planet Remarse of Conscience.”
“It’s Remorse, not Remarse,” commented Captain Flaubert. Considering it diagnostic, Mr. Gurdjieff silently put another tick next to “aphasia” in his list of objective evidences of the ongoing and alarming decay of the process of Heptaparaparshinokh Beelzebub.
“Depends on how you pronounce it. In Scotland it’s remarse.”
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