Okay, the first chapter of the 2009 edition of DU For Guests is posted in the DUmping Ground (a subsidiary forum to this, the DUmpster).
The below is entirely new material, to be the second chapter.
The part that is italicized is information that needs a second-party verification, to ensure that it's true and accurate. If it can't be confirmed, it can't appear in the second chapter.
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The organization and premises of DUmmieland. Skins's island, located in Washington, D.C., is headed by, of course, my fellow alum Skins. Second in command is Lord Marblehead. The hierarchical position of the elusive enigmatic one (official name "Elad") is ambiguous.
Skins and Lord Marblehead are in charge of policy decisions, while the elusive enigmatic one is in charge of maintaining DUmmieland.
But as my fellow alum and Lord Marblehead have considerable computer expertise themselves, they have at least some input into the work the elusive enigmatic one does, just as the elusive enigmatic one has considerable experience in fringe extremist politics, so has at least some input into policy.
The Board of Directors of Skins's island are various individuals associated with the DLC (the Democrat Leadership Council), who are patiently tolerant of criticism of their organization by the primitives, because after all, that is the idea, to keep the DUmmies locked up and isolated from the real world.
DUmmieland, or Skins's island, was originally financed by the DLC, with the idea that as time went on, it would become fully, or nearly fully, self-supporting, with contributions from members. This financial burden has not yet been entirely lifted from the shoulders of the DLC, but it has lightened considerably, given the propensity of primitives to pay their dues, and then whine that the grocer or gasoline-seller is cheating them.
The corporate headquarters of Skins's island are located in a large office building, one of those marble-and-granite "plazas" with a doorman under the awning, a valet to park one's motor vehicle in the basement, a three-story high lobby, the ceiling from which dangles enormous crystal Waterford chandeliers, artificial trees, a concierge at the front desk, and full-service glass-caged elevators; in other words, like in days of old, there's even someone to push the buttons.
The offices of DUmmieland are located on the 13th floor, and in fact occupy the whole of that floor.
The private office of my fellow alum is about the size of half a football field, the ceiling circa 20 feet from the floor. There are floor-to-ceiling windows, draperied by 16th-century tapestries from northern France. Among the furnishings, there is a Louis XIV sideboard, some Louis XV chairs, and an enormous oaken table featuring clawed legs, purchased from Blenheim Palace. Portraits by Albrecht Durer and Hans Holbein (both Elder and Younger) hang on the walls; originals.
The private office of Lord Marblehead is much smaller, and unfortunately stinks, being congested with empty snack-food bags, half-eaten pizzas, spilled whiskey-bottles, and boryborygmia.
The private office of the elusive enigmatic one, also much smaller, is much as it was in January 2001, when the premises were first set up; the only new decor added since then is dust, as the elusive enigmatic one spends most of his time away, and operates from, places far distant from Washington.
These three offices surround a very large conference room, where the walls are plastered with posters boasting Che Guevera, Mao Tse-tung, Ho Chi Minh, Fidel Castro, Joseph Stalin, Leon Trotsky, Papa Doc Duvalier, Delores Ibarruri, Emma Goldman, Robert Mugabe, Yugo Chavez, Osama bin-Laden, Enver Hoxha, Genghis Khan, Boris Borozovksy, &c., &c., &c., the usual standard customary primitive heroes.
At the entry to the conference room, with the conference room keeping far distant the three private offices, sits the receptionist for DUmmieland, allegedly a great-aunt of the elusive engimatic one. She is 66 years old, and built like a battleship. An old maid, she chews gum as she peruses Glamour, Modern Bride, and Women's Day, in addition to Avon catalogues.
For regular visitors to the corporate headquarters, such as family and friends of my fellow alum, Lord Marblehead, and the elusive engimatic one, or Democrat party activists, or Democrat politicians and their staffs, or the U.S. Secret Service, the receptionist directs them to the conference room, to sit and wait until one of the three is free to attend to them.
The receptionist of course is intimately familiar with the DUmmies, or primitives.
Whenever a primitive shows up, seeking an audience, the receptionist kindly points the primitive to a door marked "WAITING ROOM." The DUmmie opens the door and steps inside, and is immediately sucked down an enclosed spinning chute, eight feet in diameter, so as to accomodate the heavier ones. As the primitive whorls downward, water shoots from nozzles, cleaning him up, and brushes wax back-and-forth, scrubbing him.
After which the DUmmie emerges on the sidewalk outdoors.
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Okay, I think I need to sleep on this one; it's not as sharp as it could be, and perhaps should be two chapters, not just one.
