A message from Castle Fluffy Clouds: We want to escape, but it is not possible to leave. The strain of pretending Woodleaf is sane is bringing us to insanity ourselves. On his birthday, April 6, 1964, he instead we all wear party hats. He made us listen to the song, House of Fun by Madness, over and over. We intend to kill ourselves, due to the depression.
Heidi Manyhats or should I say Heidi Manyhates was a causality. She was forced to not go to any landmarks in South America, but instead uploaded a photo of a telephone with a lock on it. As a perverse message to The World, whom he believes is actually wants to talk with him on the phone. As you know phone conversations with Woodleaf go so smashingly well. Why the public is just dying to talk to him. They would give ANYTHING to have his unlisted phone number so he can yell at them night and day for not making him famous.
Impersonating someone who exists is easily, thought Woodleaf. He wrote up his text for the photos in English. Then he used Google Translate to translate it into Norwegian. Then he made sure the file was only listed as a pdf, and not as text, so no one could use google translate on it. Then he locked the file for editing, so no one could copy the text and translate it back to English. Then he went to the Nueva Germania Wikipedia Entry and created a link to the fake website he bought called Heidi Manyhats dot com.
Who knows if Heidi Manyhats even went to Nueva Germania, when she wrote a book about South America travel? The book is out of print and impossible to get. Even if one could get it, it’s not in English. He wants it all to be proof of his “visits to Nueva Germania” when he never even bothered to go there at all. “After all there is too much Riff Raff,” there said, Woodleaf. “If I was there I would be brunching with champagne.”
“But, what about all the starving children?” said Macy.
“Who cares,” says Woodleaf, “Help me think of a list of all the thing I ate at brunch.”
“Meticulously groomed and coiffed, appearing almost coquettish in bright red pants, gold sandals, and a Versace overblouse with silkscreened Nastassja Kinski and Jesse James Hollywood images, this gracious doyenne of frequent Sunday morning brunches filled exquisite vases with fresh calla lilies plucked from the lakeshore whilst kielbasa, lox and bagels, omelettes, latkes and apricot brandy beckoned colonial bluebloods.”
“This is the worst writing, and why bagels and lox?” asked Macy.
“Its funny,” said Woodleaf, hysterical laughing.