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Friday, July 08, 2005

Queer Eye for the Ancient Tribal Guys?

The Textile Museum in Washington D.C. is hosting a display of ancient Peruvian Huari clothing. Apparently found amongst the clothing was an ancient manuscript consisting of a lengthy interview between a tribal shaman and the designer of the clothing. Fortunately, the maintenance man at the museum speaks fluent Huari (What a stoke of luck!) and provided a translation.

Shaman: It is good that we are here in this chamber to speak the words of the things that we wear on our back and also of shoes.

(Earl's note: All right, perhaps "fluent" was an overstatement.)

Designer: It's good to see you too luv. My, you're looking absolutely scrummy in that tunic.

Shaman: Tell me then, oh flaming seamer of colorful fabrics, what is the meaning of this god-like figure with streams of light that spring forth from the wrinkles of his forehead?

Designer: Ooooh, it is a delightfully whimsical pattern, isn't it. I was thinking about kippers in the morning after a long walk in the Andes. The lines represent the triumph of clay oven cooking.

Shaman: I see you have represented the ceremony of sacrifice, with this solemn design of the baby with the blade of honor in it's neck as it is offered to the gods.

Designer: Sorry dear, that's me supplier. He's a wee bastard and nasty at that. I got tired of being overcharged and stuck a long knife in his Adam's Apple. The rays here represent the massive flatulence released when I slit him up. The smell was terrible.

Shaman: Umm, what of this one with women who play the drums of atonement?

Designer: Divas from the local temple cabaret. Lovely girls but dense as the jungle of the great river.

Shaman: What of the one with the men who happily play the pan flutes?

Designer: Zamfir, master of the pan flute. Lovely bloke, but hairy as a llama.

Shaman: The ritual fire-makers?

Designer: Barbecue luv. I like my roasted meats and vinegar sauce. They make my hair ever so shiny.

Shaman: You are the strange man who is like the peacock, only with the screeching voice of the injured owl who has ingested too much mountain snow.

Designer: You are are funny little man, aren't you. Pass me the tea and fried horned beetles will you luv? You know, you could really use a sash to go with that tunic. I wonder what I have in blood red?


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