Tropical Leaves

Mo'mungo Garung

Have you been to the land of Mo'mungo Garung?

It is a splendid little land, replete with amenities of all kinds, which might cater to those desirous of such things.


There is the diamond fountain, whose basin is said to have formed naturally deep in the balmy core of the planet - if you happen to believe in such things. Many who have "dipped" in said fountain report a special spunk which courses through their blood afterwards, granting them increased pep for at least the remainder of the day, as well as heightening their disposition towards yodelling.


But this, my friend, is far from all we have to offer here in Mo'mungo Garung, and in truth, a comprehensive examination of all our amenities would require more paper than can be feasibly rendered in Mo'mungo, as our trees are thought to be far too sacred to axe for this purpose, and alas we have devised no other means of creating paperous substance.


Just what exactly is it about Mo'mungo Garung that has all the folks in the market square becoming teary-eyed with pride as the noon bells ring out the blessed notes of our anthem? A great deal of scholarly attention has been leveled at this question, but our scientists have learned little of value, for like all their kind they only use mirrors to look up their own anuses.

I am of the mind that Mo'mungo Garung's charm comes from the special substance I have been covertly pumping into the municipal water supply for many decades now. Prior to this, Mo'mungo Garung was thought to be rather drear, an opinion still held by outsiders, but not shared by her inhabitants, who hold Mo'mungo in the highest regard, this again on account of my spectacular serum.


I tell you this in the greatest confidence, for I suspect that a glut of subpoenas will be nailed to my door should the truth become widely known, and the last thing my frail nerves can tolerate is a determined court of inquiry.


What exactly is the nature and origin of this serum of mine? This I'm afraid I cannot tell you, for I myself do not know. At six o'clock sharp in the early morn a bucket appears on my doorstep, this bucket being full to the brim with a viscous silvery fluid. Tragically, or perhaps fortunately, a severe constitutional defect of mine insists that I rise one minute past six, and not a moment earlier, and this stringent restriction has long prevented me from learning the identity of the delivery man, or the colors and geometries of the portal from which this serum issues forth. Intuition, or perhaps some intangible perception of duty, bids that I take this bucket without delay to my side garden, where a clever bit of work with a pickaxe has long ago gained me access to the municipal water line.


In goes the goop! And all that is left is to recline on my porch and align my good ear with the mouthpiece of my colossal eavesdropper's trumpet, which funnels to me squeals of bliss from all corners of wondrous Mo'mungo Garung.