A psychedelic cosmic scene with an old man sipping green juice, a large gong, mystical knots, and cartoon characters dancing around a dog.

Well the quintessence of the rasa of the juice and the gist of this toasted oat cartoon terma tale’s terton tartan tiffany twist goes something like this: After Lacan finds himself burbling like a dumpling in the wyrd cauldron to be rendered (only) in the event of a dispute over the ownership or lineage of any given knot, his (“Baltimore”, apres McNulty) knot was thereby retroactively untied in a jiffy, and he finally just blubbered all over himself in the jouissance of a well struck gong. Just like Nat, he’d cut loose from the noose and sat sipping on green juice in the transcendental cafe he’d always wanted to open at the end of time. Yes, friends, his new fraternity was eternity. Now that very bell resounded unbounded unto the ears of our very own huckleberry hounded Snaffles. When Lacan’s knot, pulled up through himself and, as he had always felt, as himself, thereby suddenly and so surprisingly unraveled through the example of a Borromean within a “Who’s on First?” sausage circle looping over and all around itself, the resulting kertwang of Lacan motherplucking himself into Pythagorean bliss sent the knotspace into a temporary Hello Kitty tizzy, and the collective hallelujahs and hosannas of bodhisattvas across dimensions landed on the ears of Snaffle as all cowbell. Now every sailor who knows her fair share of knots knows that Snaffles heads home for cowbell, y nada mas. No hog call, skillet rapping or “hare boi” would bring the oversized hound back to his mothership, Voir plus