After five-and-a-half hours sitting on a plane the
the worthless thing fell from the sky into the dark
heart of the Brazilian Matto Graso. I awoke amid a
group of Bantau Indians, descendants of the nomadic
Omecs, where in time they treated my injuries and
restored my strength. In time I came to help around
the village, tilling the fields, preparing feasts,
warding off evil spirits and learning fundamental
third-grade conversational Bhutuu.
The Brazilian Matto Graso is a wonderous place,
inhabited by some of the most vile and hate filled
habitants of South America, where it seems every
organism in the jungles are dangerous to human life
and the indigineous native popular has been twisted
beyond their means by the tendrils of capitalist
influence and banana rum.
Circumstance necessitates I forget the rest of this
story but two points of order: never eat open air
meat that buzzes, and NEVER use the washroom. Ever.
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