Every morning, smiling vacantly, they filled jars. Carried by
shinypated acolytes, silently, meditatively, to gigantic vats in the
bowels of the monastery: fermented, fermented reverently, this became
the finest vintage in all of Shangri-La Valley. Aged to perfection in
casks of clean white tile, Monkspisse Wine has a nutty, smoky flavor
with just a hint of meconium -- reminding one of the womb and of the
dimly remembered doorway of forgotten stars, which yawns between the
womb and Nirvana.
The missus and I took a trip down to Monkspisse. In the Winnebago,
along with Coco the Lhasa Apso. A sudden gust swept the Winnebago off
the road. The Swinnebago was caught up in a hurricane and transported
to the land of Zo. Which is right next door to the land of Zoso.
Anyway. Once we alit from the Swinebago, the pigs with their bibs on
stared at us hungrily -- on the bibs, a man glyph -- "Corny", the guy
from the streetcorner signs. We fled to the border with their hot
porcine breath fogging our heels. Soon we were safely in Zoso, and
clutching our guitars, which they hand out one by one at the border, we
headed to the closest hookah pit.