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Ice-FlØ Expedition Whipograph - Week One

Ice- FlØ Tribal Festival/Fundraiser 06/16/07

Having recovered from a somewhat perilous journey into the recesses of the Fl∅corian depths, this humble old sweat submits forthwith for your approval the immediate and subsequent accounting of my phantasmagoria deep into the frozen nadir of the core ice.

I prepared for my journey in the usual fashion – from the ground up. I chose a pair of my patented Tundra Wallopers, a kind of daisy root that keeps one slightly above the beer-filled miasma, facilitating clear views of the surrounding landscape necessary for accurate studies. I also donned the standard-issue Thermofl∅ breaches, a District Officer’s ceremonial waistcoat, ascot and full-length formal-expeditionary Glaciacloak. Of course, I had my cranial heating and officer’s formalwear top hat, custom fur-lined goggles and white leather Sn∅-gloves with patented accu-finger technology, in preparation for sudden lust flurries. Oh, and dare I be so bold as to admit that I carried a small flask to warm communications and lubricate my interactions with the Fl∅cal natives.

As the daylight clung to its perpetual luminosity, I obtained my first glance at the snowcapped ceremonial lands in the distance. Due to an abundance of precision, I arrived in time for what appeared to be a festival. From what I am able to gather at this juncture, the ice-digenous peoples appear to be obsessed with penguins, elevating the poor creatures into the god-like ranks usually reserved for animals of a more vicious variety. In fact, I deciphered the following conversation, overheard in the native Fl∅corian tongue, which indicates that the elevation of the penguins may soon be translated into literal terms:

Native One: “So, we’re gonna launch penguins wit’ parachutes over da crowd on the Playa [belch]…”

Native Two: “Oh ya. Cool. Wit’ a potato gun?”

Native One: “Sum-fin like dat. D’ju wanna beer?”

Native Two: “Shurrreee [burp].”

Fascinating, indeed.

Despite the below freezing temperatures, I was then surrounded by the scantily clad representatives of this unique culture, or Burleskimos, who began to thrust their talismans and edible offerings, along with a copious and frostily-erect bosom or two, offering the like for my amusement and to quench a thousand different thirsts. So stunned was I with their enrapturing appearance, I suspected from my dizziness that I might be suffering from a lingering ague, a little souvenir unfortunately obtained when I once ventured in my youth to a somewhat subtropical region. I have learned that one must, at all costs, avoid fraternization especially of the sort that results in room service, however tempting the nubile indigenous might be. Although hypnotized by both the male and female variety of Burleskimo, I kept my carnal musings to myself, not wanting to behave like a cad nor a poodle-faker, although the temptation to do so was causing a wonderfully tingling sensation in my goolies.

Inside of the ice cave, the festival really began to escalate, fueled as it were by beer, bum and bacca. A beautiful native Witch Fl∅ctor took to the stage, calling herself, “Rose,” ironically the name of a flower never found on the chill-swept landscape upon which we all had gathered. She was indeed a rarity of floral fire, ensnaring all who listened to her and her back-up devotees, although Rose and her group were dressed in clothing that seemed dreadfully inappropriate for the ice. We decided we enjoyed them despite this failing.

It had begun to snow outside the cave, and I was drawn by unearthly wailing sounds in the distance. As I stepped into the open, I immediately observed the following wildlife at play:

1. A Fl∅lar Bear (Ursus Maritimus Fl∅bearus Fudo-us) dressed appropriately in top hat, vest, tie and cane for this arctic-erotic opera. Curiously, not only had his trainer, one would assume, accomplished the task of clothing the delirious beast, he had also trained the monster to walk upright the entire evening, despite evolutionary design to the contrary and the copious consumption of premium whiskey:

2. A perfect specimen of a Great Blue Penglaquin (Stachenodytes Playagonicus) hell-bent on “bangin’ on dee dwums:”

3. A tribal leader, Ice Princess Choklit, a commanding and chilly presence in the best sense, who paradoxically, is so charming as to melt the permafrost around any heart:

I pined deeply to lay my hands upon a bioscope, which would enable the immortalization of all that I observed. However, I had left same at base camp and therefore entered a note into my journal for future reference. At this juncture, dear reader, you simply must take my word as a Fl∅fficer and a gentleman, that these creatures do, in fact, walk the subject frozen lands.

I was keen on discovering the source of the deep sounds that enveloped us all in their four-octave below wake. After navigating through a huge crowd of attendees, I ultimately discovered the source; a chota wallah in the corner, transmogrifying the sounds, which emanate from deep within the Fl∅ itself, upon canoe-shaped instruments of his own design. Brilliant.

Becoming enraptured by the primal moaning and the falling snow, which curiously seemed to spew forth from a single fount in the sky, the festival took a fiery turn. Suddenly, the orange glow of a conflagration lit the faces of the attendees and we were treated to an elemental dance display of fire vs. ice, the likes of which this intrepid Antarctic pole-jockey has never before witnessed.

However, an astonishing sight immediately distracted me - two creatures that appeared to be the ghastly combination of man and penguin. Apparently, there has been some fraternization of the bestial variety among the tribe and the local fauna, illustrating the lengths of worship the Ice Fl∅landers are willing to put forth. Despite my bewilderment, I suddenly remembered that I indeed carried an instrument of recordation and I therefore managed to capture the accompanying image with my Lumière Cineacutematographe. Those of the delicate persuasion are advised to avert their gaze.

So amazing are these creatures, it is clear to this humble servant that nothing short of worship will suffice.

Delightfully woven into the tapestry were several dancers, who magically appeared back within the ice cave, providing a rarity of performance and titillating combination of flesh and fantasy. The natives are not bound by our culture’s sense of propriety and therefore, are free to thrill and amaze showing much more skin than just an ankle, which is normally the limit of corporeal landscape one may hope to see back home. I enjoyed the Amrita dancers thoroughly and thanked them copiously for defrosting my Van Dyke.

The moment had then arrived for this Major to gain the trust of the Fl∅cals through participation of the theatrical sort. I therefore donned a traditional instrument, and performed an opus or two joining the Ice Princess, the amazing singing Fl∅lar Bear and the somewhat agitated Penglaquin, casting a series of sonic spells, coming together in a group we’ve dubbed Baby Seal Club, after a creature who deserves its own club – after all, every gentlemen should have one.

At long last, the sartorially resplendent crew of Pumps:Fire invaded center cave and rounded out the celebration through a magically audio-phonic dreamscape, which caused quite a stir and an incurable epidemic of happy feet.

In summary, it is clear to me, having circumnavigated the globe throughout many adventures, that the planned expedition and contemporaneous construction of a vehicle design to blend into the surrounding landscape as to allow further study is a necessity.

Regimentally ill,

Major Whiplash Windchill
Explorer, Fl∅-pographer
Latitude 38° 23′ 10.0176″
Longitude 122° 53′ 25.8612